Summer Storm
by Witch of Eastwick
Summary: Diplomacy. Tristan scoffed. An excuse for back-stabbing and scheming. Being a confidant of the king did have its disadvantages. When the actions of one, single ally put the entire kingdom at risk, Tristan is not looking forward to cleaning up the mess.
1. On Politics

**A/N: Something that has been nagging me for months now. I will be finishing my other story as well!**

**This is post-movie and AU, because all knights are still alive ( yeah, I've gone all soft). You can find a list of characters on my profile. This story has no connection to my other one, though I have borrowed Dinadan's background from PPF.**

**I hope you will enjoy this story!**

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**On Politics**

Tristan did not like politics. At all. He was born and bred a warrior and had spent his entire life resolving conflicts with sharpened metal. In his opinion, it was an efficient and time-saving way of solving problems.

Arthur had orated time and again on the necessity of bringing the different tribes of Britannia together in peaceful and diplomatic ways. Bloodshed would only further antagonise tribes that had been rivals for many centuries, before Rome had imposed her peace on them for only a few hundred years.

Now that Arthur had united the rebels and most of the Briton tribes from the northern parts of the island and had established his rule as king, it was time to look at the territories around them, which had been formed after Rome's abandonment of the island.

There were some Romans that had stayed behind and built their own small realm, neighboured by native people who had returned to the rule as it had existed before Rome's occupation. Other Britons, who'd held power in the empire as magistrates and village elders continued to exert it under their own name.

Some were quick to join under Arthur's rule, while some were suspicious and even openly hostile. It had been eight years since Badon Hill and Arthur had spent every day consolidating his kingdom and establishing relations with neighbouring lords. Arthur's court was no longer established at the Wall, but at a more centrally located fort, which had been further fortified and expanded, quickly growing into a large settlement.

Diplomacy. Tristan snorted, leaning back in his seat and looking around the Round Table. He stretched his long legs under the Table, the leather of his boots protesting. An excuse for back-stabbing and scheming. And above all, time-consuming and utterly dull. Tristan spared the serving girl that was filling his cup barely a glance. "Sir," she said softly and moved to Dinadan, who was sitting next to him.

The Round Table, mostly vacant after fifteen years of fighting, had been filled again over the past eight years. New recruits that had proven themselves were sitting next to Arthur's own trusted knights and seasoned Briton warriors who'd retired from the Roman army, one of which was Dinadan. Banners and tapestries were hanging from the walls.

The politeness with which he was treated these days had taken Tristan some getting used to, but as the highest ranking men in the king's service, the knights' status was now a world away from the unwillingly enlisted soldiers that they'd been. Tristan found his new status more cumbersome than his old one, because Arthur insisted on having his confidants present at all negotiations and seemingly friendly visits, so he could inform himself of their opinions later.

Tristan appreciated the importance Arthur placed on his knights' opinions, but he thought diplomacy was a waste of time. Worst of all, every guest was treated with such care and courtesy that it often took up Tristan's entire day being present at meetings and feasts.

It was Arthur's Roman blood that made him so keen on ceremony, Tristan was sure of it. That, and the diplomatic trick of making his quests seem important with all this pompous fussing. He had to admit it was an effective trick, aside from the growing portentousness of the guests.

Diplomacy. Wonderful. Diplomacy was the reason why he'd probably be sitting in the Great Hall for the rest of this clear, bright summer day, listening to some neighbouring lord's whingeing and pretentious quacking, while Arthur maintained his usual calm attentiveness with a discipline that Tristan admired.

Lancelot was an expert at diplomacy. He charmed and talked everyone into revealing things they did not want to spill, having an uncanny knack for picking up on things that were left unsaid. Arthur brought him along on all of his travels. At thirty-five, the dark knight had not yet found a wife, though women of all ranks were still lining up for him.

Bors had finally married Vanora after Badon Hill and celebrated his new, honest status with three more children. His two eldest sons were sitting beside him at the Round Table, still wet behind the ears – in Tristan's view – but having earned their seat nonetheless.

Speaking of wet behind the ears… Tristan glanced at Galahad. He smirked behind his cup. Though the whelp was no longer the youngest knight, he had retained that trace of innocence he had always had, and which had caused the regular arguments between the scout and the younger man. Even after twenty-three years, Tristan could not help himself making the odd remark he knew would rile Galahad.

The whelp had married Bors's eldest daughter two years ago. Tristan cringed. He would never touch one of Bors's daughters. Not because of their appearance; some of them had inherited their mother's looks and Vanora still drew every man's eye to her. No, that wasn't why. It was the rather unfortunate circumstance that _all_ of her daughters had inherited _her_ temper. Being raised by Bors had further developed their personality into something Tristan found to be too loud, too quarrelsome, and too eager to throw pottery.

He supposed that was partly what had attracted Galahad – he'd always loved a good argument. Gawain was still the man best-suited to handle Galahad's temper, though it had simmered down somewhat over the years.

Gawain's wife, a daughter of a neighbouring lord, was a tiny thing, not even reaching her husband's broad shoulder. Ragnell nevertheless had the fierce knight firmly wrapped around her little finger, despite her fragile and mouse-like appearance, and had created a solid and warm home for the knight. Their two little boys took after their father in every way, from their unruly, tawny head to their open smiles and twinkling, blue eyes.

Tristan was actually rather fond of Ragnell and her quiet, yet strong presence. He visited their home often. Ragnell accepted his taciturn ways in the same unassuming manner as her husband had done so many years ago, at ease with his silent presence as she went about her household business or sat near the fire with her embroidery with her husband next to her. The boys had grown up with Tristan's regular visits and always ran out to greet him, something he enjoyed more than he let on.

Like Lancelot and Dagonet, he spent most of his time in his rooms at the royal fort, while the other knights had established homes with their family, only using their rooms when they were summoned.

Leaning back in his seat, Tristan saw that Dagonet had noticed him staring off into the distance and was grinning at him. They were waiting for the arrival of a man named Arwel, who'd commanded the warriors of a lord named Meirion, until the latter had died of sickness two months ago. Apparently there were some problems with the lord's heir, his daughter Eirian.

Lord Meirion had been one of the first and most staunch supporters of Arthur and it was important to the king to have the problem settled before it caused a true rift between the rightful heir and the man who'd been the late lord's confidant and military commander.

Arthur had summoned them both to court after Arwel had appealed to him.

The doors opened and Jols announced Arwel's arrival. A man of about thirty years walked in, his back straight, moving with the awareness and confidence of a battle-hardened warrior. Arwel had a mop of brown curls and a serious face with handsome features. His bow for the king and queen was impeccable.

"Arwel," Arthur greeted him. "It's good to see you again. How are you faring?"

"Well enough, my lord. Thank you," Arwel replied politely. "My lady," he nodded at the queen.

Guinevere inclined her head.

They exchanged more pleasantries, much to Tristan's chagrin. It would be a while before they would get to the point. Tristan let his thoughts wander again, but still following the conversation between the king and Arwel with one ear.

"Unfortunately the lady Eirian was unable to travel here, as her messenger informed me yesterday," Arthur said. His voice was calm and even, but Tristan picked up on a hint of annoyance underneath it.

It sparked Tristan's attention. This woman had refused to adhere to a summons? That was unusual. He turned his full attention back to Arthur.

"That saddens me," Guinevere remarked. "I would have liked to see Eirian again."

Tristan had to search his memory, wondering if lord Meirion's daughter had ever visited the court. If so, she hadn't made much of an impression; Tristan did not remember her at all.

"Could you tell us more about the current situation, Arwel?" Arthur requested, after glancing at his wife when she made her subtle comment. Tristan had been in their presence long enough to know Guinevere had just reminded Arthur that even though Eirian was not present, there were still two sides of the story to be gathered.

"Aye, my lord," Arwel obeyed. "As you know, I have been in lord Meirion's service since I was a boy and I came to command his men after Rome's departure, eight years ago. My lord never remarried after his lady Elen's death, even though they only had two daughters, of which lady Eirian is the elder and heir."

"Meirion held on to the memory of his wife," Guinevere said.

"Aye, my lady," Arwel nodded. "Six years ago the lady Eirian was married to a younger son of a Cymru lord. Their children would inherit Meirion's lands. Ifan thus moved to our Caer Brannum. It seemed that the succession was settled, but unfortunately Ifan died while hunting, without having produced an heir."

Arwel shook his head. "Lady Eirian should have remarried, but by then lord Meirion had fallen sick, and he listened to her pleas to let her care for him and her younger sister. The issue of another marriage was not brought up again. Lord Meirion asked me to vow to him to look after his lands and his daughters, having taken care of most of Caer Brannum's affairs for years. Of course I agreed to this."

Arthur listened closely, though most of Arwel's history was already known to the king.

Arwel ran a tired hand through his hair. "After my lord's death, I tried to speak to lady Eirian about the affairs which had to be taken care of. She did not want to speak with me, however. I do not know why. I have always been dedicated to lord Meirian and his family, but lady Eirian had no wish for my services. She had me and my closest men cast out of Caer Brannum, along with most of her father's advisors."

At this Guinevere's eyes widened and Arthur frowned. Tristan could feel his eyebrow rise in disbelief, quickly checking himself.

Arwel continued, "Lady Eirian is clever and quick-witted, but she has had a sheltered childhood and has not been taught how to rule. She is unprepared and vulnerable. Once our enemies get wind of her situation, they will pounce. I fear for her safety and for the future of my lord Meirion's lands. This is why I have appealed to the court."

There was silence after Arwel finished. Gawain and Dinadan's faces wore an expression of astonishment. Lancelot was already mulling every word over, revealed by a thoughtful look he did not bother to hide. Bors and Dagonet were speaking very quietly, heads closely together.

"Thank you," Arthur said. "I will consider your words and I will see you tomorrow morning to inform you of my decision. Jols will show you to your room."

Arwel bowed, thanking the king, and followed Jols outside. The doors were closed.

"Lancelot?" Arthur asked.

"I've never heard such a strange story in my life," Lancelot answered. "Meirion has no male relatives to inherit Caer Brannum? That would solve this instantly."

"No," Arthur answered. "This is a delicate situation. Eirian and her sister are the only lawful heirs and as such, Eirian's actions are within her rights, though Arwel deserves far better than the treatment he has received at her hands. During Meirion's final years, he has kept Caer Brannum together."

"Caer Brannum is too important for us to leave this unstable," Lancelot said decidedly.

"Meirion should have married Eirian to Arwel in the first place," Galahad spoke and for once Tristan agreed with him instantly.

"What about the other sister?" Dagonet wanted to know.

"Tegwen is still a child," Guinevere spoke. "When I last visited Caer Brannum, she had only seen ten summers. This would make her thirteen by now."

"It might still come to a marriage between Arwel and Eirian," Lancelot pondered. "It's the only quick and effective way of resolving this. Eirian is of Meirion's blood and Arwel is Meirion's confidant. Together they form a solid pair that their people would follow."

"Eirian has thrown Arwel from his homeland, Lancelot," Guinevere said sharply. "I cannot imagine they could ever form an undivided pair now. And I would certainly like to hear her reasons for these rash actions."

"She has defied a summons from the king and has put her lands, and thus also _our_ lands, in a vulnerable state. Our enemies will not hesitate to strike at a weak spot in our defence. Caer Brannum guards us from the Saxons in the south-east and its lands are the most fertile in the area. They will swallow it like hungry wolves. Eirian has just paved the way for a new war!" Lancelot replied heatedly.

Arthur looked at his wife. "I agree with Lancelot." He held up his hand when Guinevere's face darkened. "But I would also like to know why Eirian is behaving this way. I will go to Caer Brannum myself and speak with her. Gawain, Tristan, Lancelot, you will accompany me."

Lancelot pushed his seat backwards. "I will go and form an escort."

"Thank you." Arthur looked at Tristan, who nodded and stood as well. He knew what Arthur expected of him. The quickest and safest route to Caer Brannum.

"We leave tomorrow at dawn," Arthur concluded. "This must be dealt with as quickly as possible."

"I'll let Arwel know," Gawain said and followed Tristan and Lancelot out of the Great Hall.

* * *

The day was clear and sunny. Tristan and Lancelot were riding ahead of the column, a few younger knights behind them, talking excitedly. It was only a three-day ride to the south-east to reach the borders of Caer Brannum's lands and they would be passing through Arthur's own lands to get there.

After doing a thorough survey of the area, Tristan had allowed two apprentices to scout ahead and opted to stay with the king himself, having the young scouts report to him regularly. As he had expected, there was no sign of trouble and the day passed uneventfully, though he enjoyed not being cooped up in the fort. He planned to take the next few scouting rounds for himself again.

The sway of his horse's gait under him and the spicy summer wind in his hair eased a tension in his shoulders he hadn't known was there. He was spending far too much time inside, he realised. He looked up to the sky, searching for a familiar, circling black spot, but his trusted hawk was no longer in this world.

The loss of his companion made him feel ancient. Thirty-eight. Gods, he'd never expected to live this long. He felt the strange, contrasting feelings of contentedness and restlessness surface. They'd been fighting inside him for years, the restlessness stemming from his years in service and the contentedness from a later period, after Arthur's reign had stabilised and Tristan had unexpectedly found himself leading a somewhat regular life.

The peacefulness of the last few years had agreed with him more than he'd expected after an entire lifetime of bloodshed. But there was still a part of him that longed for it, as he longed for days on end in the saddle, with nothing around him but the wild. He'd never been able to reconcile those two aspects of him, not even when there were no more elusive, blue ghosts to be chased there, only flaxen-haired giants.

He touched the grey in his hair. It didn't bother him, nor did the scar that ran from the underside of his chin to his left ear, a white, hairless line in the black of his beard. A reminder of Badon Hill. His leg was hardly giving him trouble anymore, not after the amount of time and sweat Tristan had put into bringing himself back to full strength. It was only when he was truly exhausted that a slight limp was noticeable.

The stab wounds in his chest and side were pink scars now, already faded from the vicious red they'd been just after his near-miraculous recovery. Proof that Arthur's God existed, or so the king said. According to Lancelot, it was just confirmation that a weed like him was too hard to root out.

"You're brooding," the knight in question observed, looking sideways at his companion.

Tristan rolled his eyes. Trust Lancelot to state the obvious, instead of letting him be. The pestering would be next. "If it's conversation you're after, go find Gawain," he said evenly. He hoped the young scouts would return soon, so he could ride ahead in their place and spend some time alone in the land. Hopefully it would ease the restiveness that had been creeping up on him all day.

Lancelot turned in the saddle, looking at the king and Gawain, who were speaking quietly, surrounded by knights and soldiers. "Too serious, whatever they're talking about," he judged. His eye fell on Arwel, who was riding a few feet behind the knight and the king. "What do you think of all this, Tristan?"

"It's unnecessary," Tristan answered. "Meirion should have secured his succession by taking a new wife, or by having his daughter remarry. The obvious choice would have been Arwel himself."

"So you agree with Galahad?" Lancelot asked. "Surprising."

Tristan smirked at Lancelot's mocking tone.

"I can't remember ever having seen Eirian at court, can you?" Lancelot continued. Tristan shook his head in reply, and Lancelot gave a soft grunt. "Meirion must have left her at Caer Brannum when he visited Arthur. Why do you suppose that is?"

"Travelling is dangerous," Tristan shrugged.

"It adds to Arwel's mentioning her sheltered childhood," Lancelot said. "Meirion was a magistrate for Rome when she was a child. She wouldn't have wanted for anything. Hn, I've not asked Arwel for her age," he suddenly changed the subject. Seeing Tristan's raised eyebrow, he added, "To form an idea of her."

"I'll wait until we arrive before I form an idea," Tristan replied. He noticed Griflet's appearance, one of the young scouts, on top of the hill ahead of them. The young man raised his hand and cantered downhill to the road. Tristan relaxed; his easy tempo was proof there were no problems ahead.

"Sir!" Griflet called out to Tristan when he neared them. "Everything's clear."

"I doubt you'd returned so leisurely if it weren't," the older knight replied dryly.

Griflet flushed. "No, sir."

Tristan stopped himself from rolling his eyes, wishing Dinadan had come along on this journey. The Briton had served in the Roman army as a scout for another fort at the Wall and was the best and most experienced scout after Tristan. It would be folly, however, to take the two best scouts on a relatively short and safe journey, leaving the royal fort without either of them.

Plus, this trip was good practice for the younglings.

Tristan and Dinadan trained new scouts, who were given to them after they'd finished regular training. It was Gawain who'd commanded the king's army since Lancelot had gravitated towards politics soon after Badon Hill. Gawain's rock-solid nature and fierce reputation on the battlefield had earned him immediate respect from his men, and his insight in strategy had developed that into admiration.

Gawain had insisted on Tristan taking charge of a company of scouts, training and leading them. Tristan had very little patience with recruits, most of whom were terrified of him, but Gawain had been adamant, saying the only reason Galahad was as lethal with a bow as he was came from Tristan's tutoring.

Tristan had pointed out that he and Galahad were not exactly the closest of the knights. Gawain had only snorted and said, "I don't need them to like you, I need them to be the best."

Outsmarted, Tristan had grudgingly agreed, only to have Gawain add, "Besides, you and Galahad are brothers, no matter how much he gets on your nerves."

It was not long after he'd put together a small group of scouts, made up from former Woads and Britons, that Dinadan returned to Britannia and came to Arthur to join him. After he'd sworn loyalty to Arthur, Tristan immediately enlisted him, remembering him from his days at the Wall. Dinadan was now his second-in-command.

The young Griflet had fallen into line next to Tristan, waiting patiently for his commander to turn his attention to him.

"Tor?"

"He should be back soon, sir," Griflet answered. "He wanted to have a look at the copse just ahead."

Tristan indicated that Griflet should give his report and listened to the careful and elaborate description of the countryside. Next to him, he could sense Lancelot trying to suppress a grin at the boy's obvious attempts to impress his commander with his report.

All of the older knights took part in the training of recruits; Tristan was the only reluctant one and preferred to only mind his scouts. His training was merciless, though, and therefore Gawain often nagged him into handling the newest recruits for a day or so, just to separate chaff from wheat.

"I'd rather be trained by Tristan" had become a common saying amongst the soldiers when speaking about something they truly did not want to do.

There was no disputing his skills, however, and to be accepted into Tristan's scout company meant that recruits not only had to complete regular training, but also be recommended by one of the original knights as well as by Dinadan when he taught scouting techniques to all recruits, before Tristan would even look at them.

Griflet had just finished when Tor, the other young scout, came trotting up to them. "All clear, sir."

"Stay with the column," he ordered them and took off himself. It was warm and the scent of grass and flowers was heavy in the air. Tristan's ears easily caught the sounds of birds and small animals scurrying about in the underbrush. Nothing sounded unnatural or out of place. His scouts had given an accurate account.

He stayed out alone for as long as he could without worrying the column. Fedir, a grandson of the mount who'd brought him to Britannia, appreciated the free reign Tristan gave him, wandering the countryside with ears turned forward.

Tristan decided to take full advantage of the three-day ride and scout ahead himself as much as he could. On the third day, late in the afternoon, he followed the road until he came upon Caer Brannum.

Meirion's residence was a strange gathering of buildings. A Roman villa stood on top of a hill, with a stone wall around it. On the outside smaller, wooden houses and other buildings had been constructed and spilled downhill. Wooden palisades and a moat surrounded the community. The heavy, wooden gate was only half-open and was guarded by eight men.

Tristan turned Fedir around and headed back to the column, which was almost a half-an-hour ride behind him. "Heavily guarded," he told Arthur when he reached them. "As if they expect an attack."

"Well, the woman is not completely without sense then," Gawain quipped. "Do you want me to send someone ahead to announce us?" he asked the king.

"No," Arthur said. "The less time they have to prepare for our arrival the better."

The group wound their way into the fertile valley, on the opposite of which Caer Brannum was situated.

When they arrived, one of the younger knights, Hoel, announced the king. The guards bowed and stepped aside, pushing the gate completely open and allowing the company to ride inside. The residents of Caer Brannum were gathering to watch them as they rode uphill to the fortified villa, of which the gate was already opened. The sentries there also bowed and moved to the side. The king and his companions entered the courtyard. A woman with a stern face stood on the front steps of the villa. She curtsied deeply and elegantly.

Arthur dismounted and walked to her. "Eirian, my condolences with the loss of your father." He gathered her hand and helped her upright again.

"Thank you, my lord."

Tristan studied the lady's face. It was difficult to discern her age. She was wearing a simple black gown, with a transparent black veil drawn over her hair, revealing only a few strands of dark-coloured hair. Her face was pale and drawn.

"Quite a cheery picture," Lancelot mumbled next to him.

"We are honoured with your presence, my lord," Eirian spoke, her voice clear and audible. "Please forgive me for not presenting myself at court. I have not been well enough to travel."

Tristan scoffed softly to himself. Despite the lack of colour in her face, her posture was straight and confident and showing no sign of weakness or illness. She was lying.

"I greatly esteemed your father," Arthur replied politely. "Therefore I have come to see his daughter myself."

"We are most honoured," Eirian said again. "I have already prepared rooms for you." Her eyes swept over Arthur's company and Tristan caught a flash of shrewd, blue eyes. He noticed the slight tightening of her mouth when those eyes locked on Arwel. "And for your men."

He could no longer read anything on her face. Eirian was obviously quick-witted enough to say nothing about the exiled Arwel, as he was so blatantly a part of Arthur's company. And though she might not have been at court before, she had obviously learned how to conceal her thoughts. Something in Arwel's description of her had made her seem less… constrained. The combination of that blank, polite face with those sharp eyes was unexpected. If her actions were not those of a spoilt, naïve daughter who'd been out of control since she'd had a whiff of power, then what was going on?

On top of that, she had already prepared the coming of over thirty men. How could she possibly have known so far in advance? The idea of having been spied upon without him or his scouts knowing it, made Tristan extremely uneasy. And angry.

"No bloodshed yet," Lancelot said softly. "This is going better than expected."

Arthur thanked Eirian, who waved her servants forward to care for the men, while she guided Arthur into the villa herself.

Tristan dismounted, his glare intimidating enough to make the servant hurrying towards him to take his horse step back again, eyes wide. He gestured at the boy to walk ahead. The first thing Tristan would be doing after seeing to Fedir was to prowl Caer Brannum. And he would be making damn sure he was sleeping with one eye open tonight.


	2. Caer Brannum

**A/N: Thanks again to Sachita, Rachel Blacknight, and Stickelbatz for reviewing! I hope you will not be disappointed with this next chapter.

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Caer Brannum

The stables were to Tristan's liking. They were spacious and clean and the stable hands knew what they were doing. However large they were, they could not house thirty extra horses, so some of them were brought to stables outside the villa complex. These were somewhat smaller, but in equally good condition.

After checking up on Griflet and Tor's horses, which had been stabled outside the villa, Tristan took a stroll through the town. Most of the houses and shops were very small and made of wood, though some had a stone foundation that looked rather new. The streets were not paved, but thanks to the clear weather, the ground was dry and free of mud. Tristan spotted signs of older palisades that had been partially removed to make space for more buildings. Caer Brannum was obviously still growing and developing. It was a large settlement, not much smaller than the one that had grown around the royal seat.

The townspeople studied him with open curiosity, heads closely together to gossip. Tristan paid no attention to them, searching for things that justified the prickling feeling of suspicion in his neck. He could not find anything. Muttering a curse under his breath, he had no choice but to admit that he was simply disturbed by Eirian's knowledge of their arrival. How on earth could he not have spotted her scouts?

How on earth could Griflet and Tor not have spotted them? He decided he would be having a talk with them to go over their reports again. He immediately dismissed the idea of asking Eirian herself.

Reaching the foot of the hill and the edge of town, Tristan stopped and studied the gate. It was heavily guarded, even more so than when they'd arrived. Was lady Eirian worried for her guests' safety, or was something else the matter?

The walkway behind the palisade was practically crawling with guards. It cost him only one look to decide that no one would be entering Caer Brannum unseen. No one would be leaving unseen either.

Arwel. Of course, Tristan thought. He reckoned Eirian would not be letting him out of her sight, now that she'd been forced to allow him back into Caer Brannum. Tristan turned on his heels and headed back uphill to the villa complex. And apparently she had placed the rest of her guards around the villa, Tristan saw as he neared the domus.

He didn't know what was going on, not yet anyway, but Eirian was certainly not behaving like the sheltered, vulnerable and unprepared heiress that Arwel had made her out to be.

He was itching to scout around, but a servant had already spotted him. The man scurried towards him. "Sir, my lady Eirian requests that you join her and your companions for supper."

Scouting around would have to wait. He gestured at the man to show him inside and was brought to a spacious room with two beds. One bed had Gawain's equipment strewn across it, on the other his saddlebags were waiting for him.

Tristan cleaned the travel dust from his face and hands and exchanged his tunic for a clean one. The servant led him through the complex to the atrium. Judging by its size, the villa must be one of the largest in this part of the island.

He had already spotted several storage rooms and guest rooms on his way to the atrium. Instead of leading him through the front door, the servant had taken the quickest way, unintentionally allowing Tristan to put together a reasonably good picture of the whole complex.

The scout understood this to be for reasons of haste. When he arrived the guests were already gathered in the atrium and about to move into the _triclinium_, where supper would be held. The smell of roasted meat drifted in from the back of the house, making Tristan suddenly ravenous.

"Tristan!" Gawain called out. "Where've you been?"

Tristan walked towards his brother-in-arms. "Taking a walk."

"I'm guessing you haven't even introduced yourself to your host yet?"

"Just got back."

"Seen anything interesting?"

"Enough guards to hold off an army." Tristan looked around the atrium for the lady. "Patrol rounds are good, if a bit too much. Can't get in or out unseen." He wondered who had adequate strategic skill in her service, since she'd deprived herself of the experience of Arwel and his closest men.

Arthur spotted him, Eirian on his arm. The king spoke to her and she looked at him from across the atrium, Arthur now leading her towards him.

"Put on your best smile, Tristan," Gawain grinned. "No need to frighten her with that glare."

Tristan turned his face blank and inclined his head politely when Eirian stopped in front of him. "Lady Eirian."

"Eirian, this is Tristan," Arthur introduced him.

"Ah, the famed scout," she said. "I'm honoured."

She took him in with the same shrewd glimmer he'd seen in her eyes in the courtyard, though her face was as blank as his. When she looked up to his face, the inscrutable expression vanished into a pleasant smile. It did not reach her eyes.

"You must be the person best-suited to tell me about your journey," she said. "How was it?"

Tristan hated small talk.

"It was uneventful. The weather stayed well and there were no problems," he answered.

Eirian waited graciously for details, but they did not come. Tristan expected her false smile to falter, but it didn't.

Gawain guffawed, breaking the growing silence. "My lady, our Tristan here is not a fan of elaborate speech. If you want a more thorough account of our journey, you'd best ask someone else. I'd be happy to tell you about it."

Eirian turned that charming smile to the blond knight and now it did reach her eyes. "Thank you, sir. I'm looking forward to hearing all about it from you. But I must confess, I've never had the opportunity of hearing a report from the best scout in the kingdom and it is greatly exciting to me."

Gawain gave her a friendly nod to show he wasn't offended and sent an amused glance in Tristan's direction, knowing how quickly Tristan's irritation was building.

Eirian looked back at Tristan. "Tell me, sir. There must be some stirring tale you could share with me. Were there really no difficulties? You did not see anything out of the ordinary?" The slyness had suddenly returned. "Or anyone?"

He stiffened. She knew. Her spies or scouts had observed their coming, and neither Tristan nor his apprentices had seen them.

"No, nothing that would warrant suspicion," he replied, barely managing to push the words past his gritting teeth.

Something flashed in her eyes, before it was quickly concealed. "That's very reassuring."

No doubt it was.

"Let me introduce you to my people," she continued, as if nothing had happened. She pointed at two young men, who were speaking to Lancelot. "That's Rhodri, my commander, and Llew, his second-in-command."

She turned to her left, pointing to an older man. "Ithel, my advisor."

As Tristan looked on, the white-haired man was approached by Arwel, who spoke with him shortly, before Ithel excused himself. Tristan glanced down at Eirian, who was watching with a stone-set face, not revealing anything.

The lady had invited Arwel to her supper? It was clever. She could easily have ignored his presence and forced him to spend the evening with the soldiers, who would be having a feast of their own with Eirian's men in the soldiers' quarters.

Instead she had opted to invite him and have him within her sight. She was not going for a petty victory by making him stay with the common soldiers, something well below his former rank. It wouldn't have gained her anything except Arwel's humiliation, but by keeping him in her presence she would be able to observe him all night. It was a tactical little manoeuvre that surprised him.

For the first time, Tristan really looked at Eirian. She was wearing another black gown, this one more richly decorated. Her dark, curling hair was held up by pins, hidden by the same black veil, though it was pushed farther back from her brow, revealing much more of her hair than it had in the afternoon. Her skin was fair, but looked very pale because of the swathing of black in which she was dressed.

She was young, younger than he'd expected. She must have been married at an early age, which was normal for Romans patricians, but Meirion had been a Briton. The late lord had had the succession to consider, of course, which was probably why he'd arranged Eirian's marriage at a young age. If only he had persisted and arranged a second marriage, they wouldn't have had to deal with the current mess.

"Please," Eirian said. "Let me show you to the _triclinium_ for supper. You must be starving after your travels."

She led them into a room to the side of the atrium. The walls were painted in bright colours, depicting scenes from famous Roman tales, but Tristan also recognised a few pictures of local lore. He was shown to his place by waiting servants. He noticed that Arwel was placed between two of Arthur's younger knights, not allowing him to speak privately with anyone from Caer Brannum.

Eirian sat down on one of the couches and leaned on one elbow. Tristan intercepted the look between Arthur and Lancelot. Not only had Eirian spoken about "her people" a few moments ago, she was also lying down to eat, placing herself on equal standing with the present men, instead of using a stool, as was common in Roman dining rooms. It wasn't unprecedented, but it was a bold statement.

She was asserting herself as a ruler.

"Well, well," Gawain muttered as he reclined against the cushions. "This should be interesting."

Alas, it wasn't. The size of the dinner party ensured that there would only be chitchat, perhaps laced with an undertone of intrigue that Lancelot would pick up on, but Tristan found it all to be a dragging, endless affair. The food was good, so he just kept himself occupied with that, avoiding conversation with his clipped answers.

Eirian was holding court next to Arthur, playing the part of the interested, convivial host perfectly. Tristan watched the little gestures her hands made, the graceful smiles and effortless conversation full of insightful inquiries about the current state of the kingdom. It was all flawlessly orchestrated, designed to portray her as a capable leader.

Tristan clenched his jaw. So well-prepared, when Arthur's visit wasn't even announced. Again he was reminded of his failing as a scout. And she had dared to throw it in his face. The look he sent her through his black fringe was less than friendly.

"Something wrong?" Gawain asked.

Tristan glanced impassively at him. Gawain shrugged and stretched his arm to pick some fruit from the table. Tristan opted for some more bread and let his eyes glide over the other guests at the same time. Most of them seemed to be fooled by Eirian's act, but Arwel's face was gloomy as he stared at her.

The scout reckoned he himself wouldn't be looking too favourably on the person who'd cast him out either, especially not after having kept his lord's lands together during his sickness. And this upstart of a girl, who'd been born into privilege instead of having earned it, had exiled him on a whim.

No, Tristan did not blame the man for his dark look.

* * *

He met the younger sister the next morning. He'd got up before dawn after a quiet night and decided to explore the villa complex when most of its occupants were still in bed. He retraced the servant's route from the previous evening, taking a few detours, until he arrived back at the atrium.

Most Roman villas were built in the same fashion, so he easily found his way to the kitchens, which was already full of activity. The knight's presence caused a stir amongst the maids, not used to having important guests in the kitchen. He suffered the fuss with resignation, wishing for the kitchens back home, where a simple meal was always waiting for him at dawn thanks to Cook, who was used to having the early bird in her kitchen.

Just when Tristan was about to give up trying to make clear he just wanted some bread and maybe a few apples and he would be on his way, Cook's equivalent in Caer Brannum sailed in to see what the commotion was about. She shooed the girls out and pointed at a table. Tristan obeyed and sat down on one of the wooden benches. It never hurt to stay on a cook's good side.

"Just some bread is enough," he said.

"'S not out of the oven yet," the matronly woman answered. "We've just put it in." Her dress was dusted with a fine layer of white flower to prove it. "But I've got some porridge if you don't want to wait till breakfast."

"Thank you."

"There you go, sir," she said and placed a steaming bowl under his nose, putting a jar of honey next to it. She clapped her hands and the kitchen maids filed back in, going back to their chores, giggling and whispering.

He put some honey in the bowl and stuck a spoonful in his mouth. It was good, thick porridge and he tucked in. A hand pushed a cup of watered wine in front of him. He looked up at the cook's wrinkled face, flattered at the gusto with which he was eating her porridge. He gave her a nod and drained the cup.

"Heledd!" a young voice called out, followed by quick footsteps.

The cook turned her head towards the door. An untidy, blonde head peeked around the corner. "Good morning, my lady," the cook said. "Breakfast?"

"Morning," the girl said. She noticed the unfamiliar figure sitting at the table. "Oh!"

Tristan inclined his head to her. From the way Heledd, the cook, had addressed her, he gathered that this was Tegwen, Eirian's younger sister.

She seemed to be both nervous and interested at the same time, judging from the way she was bouncing on her feet. She was wearing a simple, linen dress, bare feet peeking out from under the hem. Her hair was loose, falling messily around her shoulders. She looked like she'd just rolled out of bed. She probably had.

"Good morning," she said carefully. "Who are you?"

"Tristan," he answered.

Her eyes widened. "Of the Round Table! You are my sister's guest!" she exclaimed. She grabbed her skirt and curtsied deeply, nearly falling over in the process. "I am Tegwen," she introduced herself once she'd straightened up, cheeks turning pink.

"Good morning, lady," he greeted her, ignoring her little slip.

She sat herself down at the table, opposite of Tristan, scrutinising him as he returned to his meal. "Why are you in the kitchens, eating the servants' breakfast?" she asked, breaking a long silence.

His spoon hovered halfway from his mouth. "It's good food," he answered, caught off-guard by the snobby question, and closed his lips around the spoon.

"I thought the great knights only ate the best foods and richest wines," she said.

"Who told you that?"

"Everybody," she replied. "It's in all the tales I've heard people tell."

Tristan scoffed. "Perhaps they should have told you the true history of those great knights. They'll eat anything, I assure you."

She stared at him with a mixture of horror and fascination, and opened her mouth for a question. Heledd, the cook, placed a bowl in front of her, distracting her. Tegwen reached for the jar of honey and let some of it drip into her own porridge.

Tristan put his spoon in his empty bowl and watched the girl mix the two substances. "Why are _you_ eating the servants' breakfast?"

She looked at him as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I _like_ porridge."

He allowed a corner of his mouth to curl up. "Me too."

* * *

Tristan wandered around the villa complex for a few hours, not bothering to show up for breakfast after a second bowl of servants' breakfast, and cornered Griflet and Tor when they went to check their horses. He interrogated them about their scouting patrols so thoroughly that their nerves would be recovering for days.

Frustrated with himself and his scouts that none of them had come up with a satisfying answer as to where Eirian's scouts could have hidden themselves, he saddled Fedir and headed out of Caer Brannum. He knew his mood was deteriorating into a state of black fuming and hoped that a nice, long ride would help him work some of it off. Arthur would probably not appreciate him emanating this mood in the presence of their host. Even if she was the main culprit.

He rode farther and farther away, familiarising himself easily with the landscape. The valley which Caer Brannum overlooked from its hilltop had a few farms and orchards and in the next valley he found more farms and a small village. All of it looked prosperous. The fertility of the ground in this area made Caer Brannum one of Arthur's richest allies.

He found the tracks of horses and trailed them until he determined that they were made by patrols. This had to be Rhodri's work, the young commander who'd taken Arwel's place. He continued to follow them to study the routes the patrols took. It was good, but there was still much room for improvement.

The kind of improvement that came with experience. Rhodri was too young for his new post.

Tristan kept on tracking the patrol, until he found more confirmation of inexperience, this time making him uneasy. The patrol had ridden alongside a stream for quite some time, but had not crossed it, while there were some shallows.

He crossed the stream and explored the terrain, following his gut instinct. There they were, signs of a small group moving stealthily but not invisibly. The size of the footprints made it clear that the group consisted of adults. They were all quite deep, indicating that it were men that had passed here.

Boots, and quite heavy too. Peasants did not wear them. Tristan cursed and mounted Fedir again, steering his companion in the direction of the town. He was going to ask Rhodri about the possibility of the prints having been made by his men, but he already knew what the young commander's answer would be.

Caer Brannum's enemies were gathering at its borders.

* * *

He returned to the villa complex in a mood even fouler than when he'd left. A conflict was brewing, that much was clear. The obvious weakening of Arthur's richest ally was an incentive for war. If they did not show to the world soon that Caer Brannum was as steadfast as ever, all hell would break loose again.

Night had already settled over the town when he finished rubbing Fedir down and headed to his room. Gawain was there, cleaning a knife.

"There you are," he said. "Nobody's seen you all day. Where've you been?"

"Went scouting," Tristan replied. "Where's Arthur? We need to speak."

Gawain frowned, sheathing the knife. "Trouble?"

"Maybe."

"He should be with Eirian in the garden," Gawain said. "I left them only a while ago."

Tristan left the room, followed by his brother-in-arms. Arthur and Eirian were sitting on a marble bench, surrounded by well-kept bushes and torches to provide some light. There was no wind and the heat was stifling, even though night had already fallen.

Eirian was wearing the same black gown from the previous evening, once again topped by a veil, speaking quietly to the king. They looked up when Tristan neared them.

"Tristan," Arthur smiled. "I was just beginning to wonder whether we'd have to send out a search party for you."

Tristan gave a disdainful snort, making Arthur's smile widen.

"How are you finding Caer Brannum's lands, sir?" Eirian inquired.

"I found tracks that I do not think belong to your men, my lady," he answered, ignoring the attempt at chitchat.

"Where?"

"Past the stream in the south-east, a four-hour ride from here."

Eirian narrowed her eyes. "I see." She clapped her hands briskly, telling the servant who hurried towards her to find Rhodri and bring him here immediately. "Bercia lies on the other side of that stream, Saxon land," she then said to Tristan. "The last few weeks my commander has detected more movement, but the Saxons have not yet neared our borders this closely before. Did you find any tracks on our side of the stream?"

"No."

"I would appreciate it greatly if you would discuss your findings with Rhodri," she told him. "We have been expecting this since my father died, and we are prepared." She looked at the king. "I assure you that we can guarantee your safety, my lord."

Arthur watched her for a moment, her face a mask of firm resolve. "I have no doubt," he said.

Tristan realised he was looking at a young woman who'd been cast into the role of leader unprepared and inexperienced. Yet he could not find a trace of doubt or insecurity on her face. She played her part perfectly, confident and unaffected by the political whirlwind around her. So unruffled that not even a hair was out of place.

Normally not one to pay heed to physical discomfort, seeing her sit there cool as water suddenly reminded him of his damp hair sticking to his neck and forehead, the tunic covered in dust clinging to his body and chafing his heated skin.

She noticed him sizing her up and returned the same gaze. Looking him in the eye, she clapped her hands again and ordered some ale to wash away the dust in his throat and a light meal since he'd missed supper. "The villa is fortunate enough to have its own bathing room," she said, still not averting her eyes. "I'll have a servant show it to you if you wish to refresh yourself."

Tristan thanked her and sat down on a bench opposite her and Arthur, Gawain next to him. Rhodri entered the garden, a servant carrying a tray right behind him.

"My lady," the young commander bowed.

"Rhodri," Eirian said, "Sir Tristan here has some troubling news concerning Bercia's movements. Please mind his advice. I trust you will take appropriate measures."

"Of course, my lady," Rhodri answered and turned to Tristan. "I'm honoured, sir."

Gawain made room for the young man on the bench and the three of them discussed Tristan and Rhodri's patrol's findings. Rhodri proved himself to be an intelligent man, who had the potential to grow into an excellent commander. He'd risen in rank too soon, however, and without a more experienced superior he was bound to make mistakes. Fortunately, Rhodri was not above asking questions and listening to advice, and Tristan found himself suddenly on the receiving end of a volley of inquiries.

He agreed to have Griflet and Tor make patrols during their stay to help further increase frequency. He would be making rounds himself as well. Tristan intended to find out as much as he could about the scouts of Caer Brannum and figure out how he could have missed them on his journey here.

Eirian and Arthur looked on silently, following the quick exchange of information but not participating. The lady waved for some more drinks as it became clear that Rhodri was going to use this opportunity to extract every bit of information from the knights he could. A servant was dispatched to gather maps and Tristan pushed his fatigue to the back of his mind.

Gawain seemed to take a liking to Caer Brannum's commander. It was not long before the sound of deep, male laughter reverberated through the dark garden. Even Tristan was not completely impervious to Rhodri's infectious zeal and eagerness. The green-eyed, auburn-haired man had charisma, another item on Tristan's list on what made a good commander.

Eirian had made a good choice appointing her new commander. The scout looked sideways at her, finding the barest hint of a satisfied smile playing around her mouth. He couldn't shake the feeling that all of this was going exactly as she had planned.

She stood, excusing herself to retire for the night and leaving the men to themselves, but not before asking Rhodri to meet with her before breaking fast the next morning. Tristan did not doubt that the commander would be giving a detailed account of the remainder of the evening to his lady.

When they had finished scheduling patrols for the next week, Tristan also left, following the still waiting servant to his promised bath. The bathing room was not particularly large and had only one bath, but it was heated to a degree that made Tristan's aching muscles relax instantly. He leaned the back of his head against the tiled edge of the bath, foregoing cleaning himself for a while to just enjoy the blissful warmth seeping into his bones.

Finally he scrubbed four days worth of dust and dirt off him and rested some more, until his eyelids grew so heavy he knew it was time to find his bed. He dried himself off, leaving the towels for the maids to find the next morning. A thoughtful servant had brought him a clean set of his clothes and laid it out for him.

Tristan stretched his arms over his head, joints and vertebrae popping back in place, and reached for his breeches. He quickly combed his freshly-washed hair and decided he would braid the more haphazard strands back into submission tomorrow. After slipping on his boots, he left the bathing room, the warm evening air cool on his flushed skin. He threw his linen shirt over his head and made his way back to his room.

On his way he passed the garden, which had been abandoned by the king and the two commanders, though there were still a few torches burning, casting a flickering light on the bushes and the surrounding pillars and walls.

He caught a flash of white and stopped in his tracks. Eirian was walking in the garden. She'd shed the black gown and was dressed in an ankle-length _tunica _of bleached linen, covered by a yellow robe which was not fastened around her waist. She was slowly following the small paths of the garden, her head bent. Her head was uncovered, though her hair was still pinned up.

Aware that he was intruding on a private moment, he stepped back, hiding in the shadows. He couldn't cross the garden to get to his room unseen, so he decided to wait until she left. He didn't know why he was allowing her this courtesy, but there was something in her posture and the hanging of her shoulders that made him reluctant to disturb her.

He heard a drawn-out sigh and then the sound of footsteps on pebbles stopped. Intrigued by the tiredness that had been audible in the sigh, he turned his body until he could see her again. Eirian sat down on the same marble bench she'd been sitting on earlier, and raised her arms to pull out several long pins from her hair. Curl after curl, the dark mass fell around her shoulders and down her back. She placed the pins next to her, the metal making a soft, tingling sound on the stone of the bench.

Eirian leaned forward and held her head upside down, fanning out her hair with forceful shakes of her hands, running them through it. She whipped her head back up and rubbed her hands over her face. There was nothing delicate or posed about her now. She was tired and affected by the summer heat.

Her hands stilled, still covering her mouth, and she stared straight ahead, unseeing.

Soundlessly moving further into the shadows, Tristan realised he was seeing her in a way she would never have allowed him if she'd known he was there. Or if anyone else had been there, for that matter. Here was a normal woman, troubled with worries, pacing and brooding.

She just stayed there quietly for a while and Tristan decided he should just find another route to his room, because he had a feeling she would not be leaving soon, but there was something entrancing about her and the way she simply sat there. He didn't move.

But someone else did. Tristan froze at the same time Eirian did. The scout blinked and there she suddenly reappeared. Eirian the lady, Caer Brannum's leader. There was not a trace of Eirian the woman left.

Arwel stepped into the garden from its other side. "Eirian," he said softly. "Having trouble sleeping?"

Eirian's face did not betray anything. She did not move to close her robe, despite her completely inappropriate state of dress. It would have been a sign of insecurity. "Good evening, Arwel," she merely said, ignoring his impertinent question.

Tristan tensed even further. What was Arwel doing here? It was a very strange and – given the state of things between Eirian and Arwel – unpredictable situation.

Because Eirian did not, Tristan did look around for guards, but there were none. Not that unusual for an inner garden, but the scout had not expected Eirian to let Arwel out of his room unguarded at night. Why was he permitted to wander the villa alone at night?

"I see you are walking freely without any of my guards," Eirian observed, as if she'd read Tristan's mind. "I must not have rooted out your followers thoroughly enough."

"The warriors still support me, Eirian," Arwel replied. "You'd have to exile all of my men."

The possessive claim brought a smirk to the lady's face. "Rhodri is on his way to becoming an even better commander than you. A commander who knows where his loyalties should be and who instils the same loyalty in his men. Once I've rid Caer Brannum of your presence again, you'll not be able to spread discord any longer."

"Rhodri is a whelp. My men do not follow him."

"Really?" she drawled. "It seems that they already do. After all, he was your most talented apprentice, or have you forgotten already?"

The blatant taunt brought a spark of anger to Arwel's face. Triumphant, Eirian leaned back.

Arwel smiled bitterly. "As arrogant as ever." He stepped closer to her, looming over her. She did not bat an eye, but Tristan's hand clenched around the hilt of his knife. "Listen carefully to me, _girl_, you and Rhodri can play lord and lady as much as you like, but Arthur will never allow two children to rule the richest and most important part of his kingdom. He will put you aside and back in your place, as your father should have done years ago."

She displayed that taunting and infuriating smirk again. "You will still be an exile, Arwel. Banished and homeless."

Arwel's mouth tightened. "I wouldn't be so sure. After all, I kept Caer Brannum steady during your father's sickness. Arthur knows this and Arthur has to act before a war breaks out. The most logical solution is a marriage between you and me. The daughter and the regent. The blood and the sword."

Eirian had stood up, forcing Arwel to straighten his back and stop his looming, but now he moved closer again, his eyes gliding openly over her body. "A chore, definitely. But all for the greater good of the kingdom."

She still showed no sign of shrinking back from him, but Tristan was ready to intervene, for he could see this spiralling out of control in mere moments.

"And of course," Arwel spoke, so softly that Tristan had to strain his ears to her him, "if you refuse to cooperate, there is always little Tegwen. The daughter and the regent, Eirian, it doesn't specify which daughter. Remember that."

Arwel turned around and walked out of the garden. Eirian stared at his back, her eyes wide and her jaw tight, but showing no other outward sign that his last words had affected her. Not until he'd vanished into the bowels of the villa.

Eirian's fists slowly curled, tighter and tighter, until they were shaking. Her lip trembled and she sucked it between her teeth and bit down hard. Blood gleamed in the light of the torches when she released it to clench her jaws together. Tristan heard her breath whistle through her teeth. Her face twisted in anger and fear, moist making her blue eyes glitter. She pressed a fist to her stomach, bending over it, muffling her gasps for breath with her other hand, trying to regain control over herself.

He released the hilt of his knife, still staring at her profile. She straightened, taking a deep shuddering breath.

Tristan didn't know what he was thinking, but he moved out of the shadows into the light of the torches, before she had a chance of composing herself. Eirian whirled towards him, shock evident in her eyes for a moment, before her mask slammed back into place, so quickly it was like a gate falling shut. "Sir Tristan," she said steadily.

He stalked towards her, determined to get some answers, and he noted with satisfaction that now she did grab her robe and yanked it shut, hiding the thin _tunica_ from view. That little sign of weakness fuelled something dark in him and he did not stop until he was so close she had to look up at him. She pulled her shoulders back and lifted her chin, the arrogance Arwel had accused her of evident in the set of her jaw.

He was standing so close to her he could feel the warmth of her body. She swallowed, her pretence failing. There was resentment and fear in her eyes – she knew what he was doing, but not why. Gods, he didn't know what he was doing himself.

"I think you have some explaining to do to your king, my lady," he muttered.

"I have nothing to explain," she answered. She took a step back from him, and though the defeat made the resentment in her face flare up for a moment, it also allowed her to gather more of her self-control.

He pursued her, stepping closer after a moment and having the satisfaction of seeing the façade unravel again. Tristan reached out one hand and hooked a finger in the bunched-up cloth of the robe, where one of her fists was still holding it together. She stopped breathing, going very still.

He tugged the cloth out of her grasp, the robe falling open again. A vein was pulsing very quickly in her throat, but she did not move.

"Aye, Eirian," he said softly. "You do."

Coming to his senses, he turned around and left the garden.


	3. On Loyalty

**A/N: Much thanks to Luckylily, JulianneJayBabe, and Sachita for their great reviews. Enjoy the next chapter and let me know what you think!**

* * *

On Loyalty

Tristan moved silently through the dark hallways of the villa, back to his room. He had no idea what in the name of the gods had just got into him, compromising a woman like that. She had every right to go to Arthur and demand satisfaction for his behaviour.

Arthur would kill him if he found out. The last thing the king needed during this already volatile situation in Caer Brannum was one of his knights wreaking havoc on diplomatic relations.

He ran a hand through his damp hair. Why he had done it, was beyond him. Pulling that robe out of her hands qualified as one of the more stupid things he'd done in his life. You'd think he'd never seen a woman's undergarments before. Gods, he hadn't even been interested in that _tunica_ of hers. He shook his head, exasperated with himself.

It had been something about the reality of her standing there, no longer the composed, imperturbable actress with the calculating eyes, but a woman. After revealing nothing behind the polished and accomplished shield she'd put up to the world, the tired sigh and the dark hair tumbling down her back and the pale skin flushed with summer heat had been a heady contrast.

Tristan cursed under his breath. He wondered if it had been the same things that had prompted Arwel to step out and confront her. Tristan's mind snapped back to Eirian's _tunica_ immediately.

He didn't think she was going to go to Arthur though. To her, admitting that the knight had distressed her, would be admitting to more weakness, when Tristan had already seen too much of it. He'd seen that there was a normal woman beneath the perfect façade, who was afraid and worried.

She wouldn't allow that to surface again, not when she had the king as her guest, determining how he had to look upon her rule as lady of Caer Brannum. No, Eirian wouldn't complain. If anything, she would keep up appearances even better after slipping up.

She wouldn't ask for help dealing with Arwel or the Saxons of Bercia. She wouldn't explain what had made her exile Arwel. All of it would be interpreted as signs of incapability, something she could not afford letting happen. And just like that, Tristan realised he had probably ruined the only opportunity of finding out the truth.

He'd had her right where he wanted her. Exposed, upset, unsure. With a little more persuasion he could have had her spilling the whole story. Tristan cursed again, almost audibly this time. And then he'd stretched out his hand and opened that robe, just to let her know her vulnerability had not escaped his attention.

Why had he wanted to do that? He had no idea, but he did know that something within him had pounced the moment he saw it.

Tristan walked into his room and took off his shirt and boots, sitting down on his bed. Across the room Gawain was already fast asleep, limbs spread in all directions, snoring softly. He lay down on his back and folded his arms behind his head, staring up at the decorated ceiling. It was still too warm to sleep.

* * *

Tristan did show up for a breakfast more befitting his rank the next morning. A table was set up in the garden and Eirian and Rhodri were speaking with Ithel, the advisor, when he entered with Gawain. Rhodri and Ithel stood from their couch to greet them, but Eirian once again made a point of her rank and did not sit up from her reclining position against the cushions.

"Good morning," she only said. "I trust you've slept well."

It was as Tristan had expected. She had placed the mask of lady of Caer Brannum back over her face, more securely than ever.

"Thank you, my lady," Gawain answered smoothly. "We have."

"Sit down," she invited them and gestured at a servant to fill their waiting cups with watered wine.

Ithel engaged the knights in conversation, allowing Eirian to resume her discussion with Rhodri.

Tristan tipped the cup back to taste the excellent wine, watching Eirian from over the brim, as she and Rhodri went over his schedule for the day. Despite the commander's respectful attitude towards his young ruler, there was a familiarity between them that indicated they knew each other well. It was visible in their nods and looks and the way they seemed to know instantly what the other meant, almost finishing each other's sentences.

A particular comment made by Arwel last night sprang to mind. "You and Rhodri can play lord and lady as much as you like…"

Rhodri made a quick remark that made Eirian smile. She gave him a disapproving look, but her eyes still twinkled. Rhodri grinned cheekily for a moment, before he ran a hand through his auburn hair and steered their conversation back on track.

It was rather an intimate moment. Tristan frowned. Eirian had dissuaded her father from arranging a second marriage. Had it been because of this boy?

She looked away from Rhodri reluctantly when Arthur, Lancelot, and Arwel arrived and stood to greet the king. They walked back to the couches together, Arthur seated next to Eirian. Servants began to place fruit, bread and slices of cold meat on the table immediately. Tristan's cup was refilled.

Rhodri was practically ignored now that Eirian had the king to keep occupied. Tristan was unsurprised. No matter what was going on between her and Rhodri, Eirian would never be foolish enough to favour someone else over the king. Tristan knew Arthur wouldn't be offended by it, but it would cause him to raise an eyebrow or two and draw a few conclusions. If Tristan's instinct was right, Eirian didn't want those conclusions to be drawn.

Light, running footsteps coming from the atrium diverted his attention. They came to an abrupt halt and a moment later Tegwen came walking in slowly, hiding her panting behind pursed lips and a dignified face.

"Good morning," she said and curtsied, this time perfectly balanced. "I am sorry I am late."

Eirian greeted her younger sister and pointed at a waiting stool. Tegwen sat down and reached for a cup, still trying to catch her breath.

Her hair hung down her back in a neat braid and she was dressed more appropriately than the previous morning, Tristan noticed. The girl glanced at him, then at his plate – full of fruit and bread – and hid a grin behind her cup.

Arwel cleared his throat and asked Tegwen about her well-being. The girl's eyes shot to her sister's, but the lady's face was void of any expression. She clearly wasn't taking the bait Arwel was dangling in front of her. It seemed Tegwen had a few things in common with her older sister, because she answered Arwel's question politely and properly, not treating the exile any differently than a normal guest.

Arwel's interest in the girl had all the appearance of an attempt to include the youngest person at the table in conversation, so she wouldn't feel left out. But Tristan had been there last night and he knew Arwel was showing interest in the girl only to remind Eirian of his remark concerning Tegwen's marriage.

It was a very real threat. Eirian all by herself didn't have enough of a reputation to keep usurpers and enemies away. She needed to make a strong match to deter greedy hands. If she didn't, it was only too easy for a usurper to pass the older sister by and marry the young Tegwen, who could easily be turned into a puppet.

Arthur had to prevent this at any cost, marrying Tegwen off himself if he had to. Tristan knew that Arthur would be extremely averse to the idea, because Tegwen was still a child, but if Eirian didn't listen to reason, the king didn't have much of a choice left. Caer Brannum was too vital to the kingdom.

Arwel was still the best choice to marry Eirian. Or Tegwen, in fact. Tristan knew he was Lancelot and Arthur's first choice. He was well-known in Caer Brannum and throughout the kingdom, a respected commander, and had gained experience in handling state affairs when his lord had been ill. But after that display last night, Tristan had no doubt that it would be anything but a happy match.

That was, of course, completely irrelevant. Once Arwel became lord of Caer Brannum, Eirian would have no power left, save the power given to her by her husband. The lands would be ruled by a strong leader who could fend off the enemies of the kingdom. No war. It was what's best.

After breakfast Arthur asked Eirian to join him for a walk. Gawain and Rhodri headed outside the villa to implement the new patrol rounds, and Lancelot and Tristan followed the king. Ithel all but jumped on Arwel and started a conversation. It was clear from the determined glint in the old advisor's eye that Arwel would be occupied the entire day.

Eirian turned around. "Lessons in an hour, Tegwen."

The girl put her cup down with a clang. "But it's too warm. I wanted to go out for a ride."

Eirian's eyes flashed. "No. You're not going outside. Stay in the domus, I'll be with you in an hour."

"But, Eirian…"

Eirian's stature was unyielding. Tegwen huffed and stood up from the table, stalking off. "I apologise, my lord. My sister can be somewhat headstrong."

Tristan heard Lancelot snort very softly. "Must run in the family," he muttered to the scout.

Arthur offered Eirian his arm and together they strolled out of the domus, Lancelot and Tristan trailing behind them.

Tristan tuned out much of the meaningless chatter, focussing on the town they were walking through. Eirian showed Arthur the market, the stables – where they agreed to breed some of Arthur's own stock with Eirian's – and they visited the guards at the palisade.

Eirian spoke about Caer Brannum's situation. They were expecting an excellent harvest, trade was going well, and the town was still growing steadily. Economically, Caer Brannum couldn't have been doing better.

And that, Tristan thought, was a large part of the problem with Caer Brannum's political situation. If Eirian had come to rule a small, infertile area, there would not be such a whirlwind of intrigue and threat around her. But an inexperienced ruler as well as an inexperienced commander in a large, rich, and fertile area was the same as putting a lamb between a pack of hungry wolves.

Arthur seemed to finally breach that subject. "Eirian, I am very much impressed with the state of Caer Brannum. Your people seem to want for nothing."

"Thank you, my lord."

"However, as you well know, I have not come to see you to speak about your economy," Arthur continued. "Since you exiled Arwel, you have put yourself in a very vulnerable position. Up until then, Arwel's reputation ensured that Caer Brannum seemed as strong as ever."

"Seemed, my lord?" Eirian repeated, with a slight emphasis on the verb that indicated she took offence at his wording.

"A young, inexperienced leader never has the same reputation as his predecessor had," Arthur explained. "Having a man like Arwel in your service would have helped you bridge the gap until you were better established yourself."

Tristan spotted the stiffening of Eirian's spine. The way Lancelot was staring at Eirian told him that Arthur's advisor had noticed it as well.

"Most of my allies have sent me envoys already that beg me to arrange a marriage between you and themselves, or one of their sons," Arthur said. "They are all eager to have Caer Brannum as a part of their lands."

Eirian's face, which had held a pleasant, attentive expression, turned cold. "My lord, I am not a maiden in her father's care. I'm a widow and as such a lady in her own right. My marriage is my own to decide and I rule the lands which have been rightfully passed on to me."

Arthur turned towards her and stopped walking. "Eirian," he said kindly. "I do not doubt your right to rule your father's lands. Nor do I doubt your abilities. However, you and Caer Brannum are a very tempting target for both my allies and my enemies. I have to keep my kingdom safe. Call Arwel back into your service and let him help you establish a strong reign. A marriage between the two of you would solidify Caer Brannum's power even further."

Eirian's nostrils flared. "Arwel has been disloyal to me. His exile has been more than justified."

Tristan spoke up. "Loyalty is not instantly transferred from father to daughter. It has to be earned."

He'd hit a nerve. "Earned?" she hissed at him. "_Earned_? I have earned my people's loyalty, _sir_. Why do you think there was no revolt amongst the soldiers when I cast their commander out? Or amongst the people when I threw out half my father's council?"

She was furious at him. Tristan took in her flushed face, the blue eyes, fire and ice at the same time, and felt a dark pleasure at having stripped her façade from her again.

"Do not dare to excuse Arwel's treachery by saying I had not earned his loyalty, Tristan!" she continued heatedly, still glaring daggers at him. "My people are loyal to me! I had every right to cast away that rotten apple!"

Her familiar use of his name gave him a jolt. He hated to admit it, but she did have a point. She could only have thrown out the old figures of power without causing an uprising if her people were indeed loyal to her. To her as a person, not just as an extension of her father's power.

Lancelot was looking at him in almost comical shock. Maybe his comment had been somewhat out of line.

Arthur cleared his throat, sending a reproving look in the scout's direction. "Lady Eirian, I have only heard Arwel's side of what happened, not yours. I would like you to tell me your part."

Eirian turned away from Tristan, taking a breath to calm herself. She looked at Arthur, but seemed to hesitate. "I cannot."

Lancelot snapped out of his shock and growled, "Do not forget you are speaking to your king, lady Eirian."

"I cannot," she restated with tight lips. "Not until I have your word that you will respect my right to rule my own lands and to pass judgment." She looked at Lancelot. "I do not need to be reminded that I am speaking to the king, sir. The _high_ king. I am loyal to him, but my lands are mine to rule as I see fit."

"Until your actions jeopardise the kingdom, I will not intervene in your ruling," Arthur said.

Eirian seemed to realise that she would not get a better answer than that, because she sighed and nodded. "After my father died, Arwel and some of my father's advisors came to speak to me about a remarriage. To Arwel. They used the same arguments as you just did, my lord. I refused. I had only just lost my husband and now my father and I had my hands full with my distraught sister as well as my role as leader."

Eirian's face darkened. "They did not take well to my refusal. They kept badgering me, trying to convince me, coerce me even, until I ordered them to hold their tongues. For a fortnight or so, they obeyed. Or so I thought. Then Rhodri came to me. As Arwel's most talented apprentice, he'd been included in a plan to force me into this marriage of theirs. When Arwel came into my bedroom a few nights after that to compromise me, he found Rhodri and a company of loyal men instead of me."

She laughed mirthlessly. "Rhodri ensured me the look on Arwel's face was priceless. With his help I rooted out every part of his conspiracy."

Lancelot's eyebrows disappeared behind his curls.

"I think I need not say that Arwel left out this part when he appealed to the court," Arthur replied.

"Indeed. And I could not risk going to court and expose myself to the dangers of travel," Eirian explained.

"Arwel's methods are less than admirable," Lancelot said, "but why did you refuse his offer of marriage in the first place? It _is_ a good match."

She looked him steadily in the eye, confidence and audacity in her stance. "Because Arwel was not looking for a role as consort. He wanted to rule what is mine."

Her eyes shot back to the king. She raised her chin defiantly. "My lord's allies and enemies might think that Caer Brannum is weakened, but I invite them to come and have a look for themselves. They'll find out the truth soon enough."

Tristan heard Lancelot groan to himself. Aye, the scout agreed with his brother-in-arms, war had just come considerably closer.

"If you'll excuse me, I have to see to my sister's lessons." With a graceful bow, Eirian took her leave and walked back to the domus. They watched her retreating straight back and uplifted head in silence.

"By the gods, Tristan," Lancelot sighed. "We have been here all but one day, and you have managed to antagonise your host already. I don't know how you do it, but if it wasn't so bloody annoying, I'd be impressed."

Tristan failed to look properly chastised. Instead, he told Arthur and Lancelot about Eirian's encounter with Arwel last night.

"Well, it's safe to say a marriage between the two of them is out of the question," Lancelot sighed.

"I cannot deny her rights to Caer Brannum," Arthur said. "From what I've seen she is holding Caer Brannum together on her own well enough. I have no reason to intervene."

"Except the prospect of war," Lancelot replied. "Arthur, you know it doesn't matter how well she's doing. It won't stop others from attacking. How long before your allies stop sending you requests to arrange her marriage and decide to take matters into their own hands? If they're quick enough to beat the Saxons to it, that is."

"You're right, Lancelot," Arthur agreed, unwillingly. "It's not fair to the lady, but we must try to get through to her. I will speak to her again. Can you go through all of the offers of marriage and bring me the most suitable ones?"

"Of course," Lancelot answered. "But if what Arwel's comment about her and Rhodri is true, she won't accept any of them either."

"There is no chance of her marrying him," Arthur said, now with a steely undertone. "It would leave Caer Brannum just as vulnerable as it is."

"She's made it clear she wants to rule," Tristan muttered. "There are consequences."

* * *

"I beg your pardon?"

Eirian did not take Arthur's decision well.

"There are two candidates most suited," Lancelot repeated himself. "Owain, the youngest son of lord Alun, and Huw, lord Eurig's eldest son."

Eirian blinked rapidly a few times and then glared at each and every person present in the room. Arthur and his knights were watching her stoically, but her advisor, Ithel, had an expression of compassion on his weathered face.

"I believe, my lord," she spoke curtly to Arthur, "that you promised me not to intervene."

"As long as it did not put the kingdom at risk," Lancelot answered for the king. "Your remaining unmarried does precisely that."

"I have assured you that Caer Brannum can withstand any attack," she retorted. "Rhodri is a capable commander."

"Rhodri is talented," Gawain said calmly. "But he is still too green to lead an army. He needs guidance."

"Then guide him," she said to him. "Owain ap Alun is of Rhodri's age and Huw is of mine. They are not exactly going to be able to offer him much experience, are they?"

"But they will provide you with their family's protection," Arthur said. "Gawain has already offered to finish Rhodri's education, but that is not enough."

And if it was experience she was after, she could always marry Huw's father, who'd been widowed the previous year, Tristan thought.

"It is enough," she protested in a low voice. "My father spent the last years of his life making sure I was ready to succeed him. When it became clear that Ifan, my late husband, was more interested in hunting and horses than ruling Caer Brannum, he educated me, so that I could take care of the lands if my husband would not. Ifan died even before my father and I believe that if he had found it necessary for me to remarry, he would have compelled me to."

She looked around the room intensely. "He didn't," she snapped. "He meant for me to rule, not some son of another lord, but his daughter, his blood."

Tristan could not deny it was impressive, the way she stood there, fiercely defending her right to rule. "Would you, my lord, go against the wishes of your oldest and staunchest supporter? Would you disrespect him so?"

Arthur looked intently at her.

"I _will_ keep Caer Brannum safe," she continued resolutely. "And I will defend the kingdom."

Lancelot had already opened his mouth to retort, but Arthur held up his hand to stop his friend. "I will consider your words," the king said.

The fight seemed to suddenly leave her. Something resembling doubt and distrust crossed her face, before she moulded it into a stern expression and nodded. She thanked him with a clipped voice and excused herself.

"Ithel," the king addressed the old advisor wearily. "Your thoughts, please."

"Lady Eirian speaks the truth," Ithel replied. "It was my lord Meirion's wish that his daughter succeed him. Ifan was… a kind man, but as a younger son he'd not been raised to rule and wasn't interested in learning, while Eirian had always been close to her father and had seen much of his reign. It was not a good match."

"Arwel told us Eirian had had a sheltered childhood," Lancelot said.

"Ah, lady Eirian was certainly well-protected," Ithel nodded. "But it would suit Arwel's intentions much better if she was also uneducated and naïve. If that is how he made her seem, it couldn't be farther from the truth. She –"

The advisor's voice faltered when Tristan stood and headed out the door.

"Tris!" Gawain said surprised. "What are you –"

The door swung shut, drowning out Gawain's voice. He turned to the garden on instinct, knowing she would be there.

"Oh," she said when she saw him, distaste written on her face. "What do _you_ want?"

That impolite remark was the verbal equivalent of a slap in the face. Tristan paused in his step, quirking an eyebrow. His presence had to really offend her.

Eirian pursed her lips, seemingly berating herself for her slip. "Sir," she added with a drawl.

Tristan gave an amused snort. She had almost choked on the word. "You're deliberately heading for war. Why?"

"Excuse me?"

"I had to listen to Ithel praising your education and insight," he said. "You know what you're doing by refusing a remarriage. Why?"

She opened and closed her mouth, scoffed and shook her head. "I have to say I'm truly impressed with the way you can twist truth to suit your own purpose. Pray, do enlighten my confused mind. How is it my fault that a group of power-hungry lords are not satisfied with what they've got and wish to expand their lands by swallowing mine? Why should I sacrifice my father's lands and my rights to it for that?"

"Because this is simply the way it is," Tristan replied. "You're willing to wage a war for what you think is your right. Tell me, what have you done to earn these lands?"

Bristling in anger, she took two steps closer to him and hissed, "Don't even think about bringing that up again! I have spent the last six years beside my father, preparing myself to take over from him. I am prepared for this and my people know it."

With a toss of her head, she threw back a few stray curls from her face. Tristan suddenly felt the insane urge to take hold of those dangerous-looking pins and pull them out of her hair.

Eirian's face twisted into a sneer. "What utter nonsense is this. If my father had had a young son to succeed him, I doubt the king himself and three of his _great_ knights would have ridden so quickly to persuade him to give up his lands."

"Arthur wants Caer Brannum to be safe, he's not asking you to give up your lands," Tristan replied.

"A marriage to another lord's son would mean giving up my lands," she said. "I am not even given a chance to prove myself, solely because I am a woman."

He scoffed. "Do not be ridiculous. My people's history has known women to lead their tribes in battle. It is not new to us. The queen herself sits at the Round Table."

"Then why?" she demanded. "Why this insistence on my marrying?"

"Arthur wants to prevent a war."

"Maybe he should keep his lords in better check then," she hissed venomously. "I am going to fight for what is rightfully mine."

"You're going to keep attacks from allies as well as Saxons at bay?" Tristan asked, his upper lip curling into a sneer. "All by yourself?"

"If I have to," she snapped back. "And I never thought I'd see the day when king Arthur and his men resorted to coercion to avoid a fight. _Coward_, so much –"

Tristan bared his teeth and grabbed her elbow, jerking her towards him. "Hold your tongue, woman," he snarled. "You're young and I'll let that slide once, but until you've stood knee-deep in blood and gore, with some enemy's entrails still dripping from your sword and your brothers' dead bodies lying around you, you have no inkling as to what motivates Arthur and us to prevent a war."

Her eyes were very wide and she was even paler than usual. He knew he was hurting her, the way his fingers were digging into her flesh, but she showed no sign of it.

"If we can guard the peace in the kingdom by sacrificing one girl's petty ambitions, trust me..." he growled in her face, "we will not lose one ounce of sleep over it."

The resounding smack in his face echoed against the walls. She yanked herself free from his grasp, breathing heavily. "Go back to Camelot then!" she cried. "Caer Brannum has no need of you!"

She pushed past him to leave. Tristan let her, ignoring the fierce stinging of his cheek. He turned around and froze.

Rhodri was standing between the atrium and the garden, a look of anger and confusion on his face. "Eirian?" he asked, as she stormed towards him. Quickly checking himself, he added, "My lady?"

She came to a halt in front of her commander. Tristan could see her shoulders shaking. "I wish to speak to you immediately," she ordered.

Rhodri bowed his head. "Of course." He glanced at Tristan for a moment, his green eyes narrowing. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," she snapped. "Follow me."

They disappeared into the house, Rhodri casting a last look of distrust over his shoulder. The last thing Tristan heard was the young man's question. "What's going on, Eirian?" And a harassed huff from the lady, before they were too far away.

Alone, Tristan moved his jaw. Eirian had not held back an inch. Not so restrained after all, stepping into a slap like that. He was still seething from her words. The little upstart was starting to grate on his nerves.


	4. Liaison

**A/N: I want to say thanks to Luckylily, madluv, Lady of Lochaber, and Sachita for their great reviews! Gives me lots of inspiration to keep writing!**

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Liaison

The next week passed in a blur of long patrols and a mass of heavily armed guards at the gates and palisade, endless debates that became more heated every day, and an ever increasing heat wave that frayed tempers.

Having been ordered to stay inside the villa at all times, Tegwen wandered around the hallways all day, sulking and unsupervised, because her sister's meetings lasted throughout most of the day.

Rhodri's men found Saxon tracks on Caer Brannum's territory, which added more fuel to the issue of Eirian's marriage. The youthful commander himself eyed Tristan with ill-concealed suspicion all week and Eirian herself had retreated into an icy shell. Tristan escaped some of the non-stop discussions by leading several patrols, but he was present often enough to know that Eirian had all but turned into a brick wall. Unmoving and unyielding, she refused to acknowledge any validity in Arthur's arguments. Tristan was aware that the mistrust she radiated was his fault.

Caer Brannum was heading towards a clash with Camelot and Tristan knew he was at least partially responsible for it. But he'd be damned before he let that girl start a war just so she could plant her privileged backside on her father's throne.

She stayed away from him, but he could feel her glare burning a hole in his back every time he was in her vicinity. And Rhodri just _hovered_.

"This is getting us nowhere," Lancelot sighed after Arthur had asked his knights to convene. "She is not going to accept."

"Bercia is testing the waters," Gawain spoke, wiping his forehead and lifting his long hair from his neck in an attempt to cool himself. "Rhodri is already preparing a defence in case of an attack."

Tristan emitted a low hiss. "In _case_ of an attack?"

"The attack is coming," Gawain nodded. "We don't know how much time we have."

"Arthur," Lancelot said, "I have to ask. How far are you willing to take this?"

"I cannot throw the kingdom back into a war," Arthur said gravely, lines deeply etched into his face. "We are only just recovering from the battles against the Saxons of Deira three years ago. Caer Brannum provides much of the kingdom with grain. If we allow it to become a battlefield…"

"Famine."

Gawain's voice had been dark as he'd uttered the dreaded word. He leaned his elbows on his knees. "Arthur, you can't actually force the girl into a marriage. She'll have to say yes at one point."

"Not necessarily," Tristan muttered.

"Tristan!"

Lancelot worded his sentence carefully. "There is another possibility, one that we have not discussed yet. Tegwen."

Well, there it was, Tristan thought. What was it that Arwel had said? The daughter and the regent… No matter which daughter, as long as Meirion's blood was still ruling Caer Brannum. Tegwen, the puppet.

He wasn't aware that he'd said the last words out loud, until Lancelot looked at him strangely. "I prefer the term malleable," the curly-haired knight said dryly.

"She's thirteen, Lancelot," Gawain said disgustedly.

"I know," Lancelot acknowledged. "But women have been married before at that age and –"

"_Children_," Gawain interrupted him. "_Children _have been married before at that age."

"Gawain, I am as reluctant as you are," Lancelot snapped. He sighed. "It is an option we cannot ignore, however. As a last resort. Marrying Tegwen off to a strong party and putting Eirian aside will make our enemies think twice about attacking, but it will also destroy what's left of Meirion's family."

Tristan folded his arms. "Two girls or a kingdom. It's an easy choice."

* * *

"Do you truly think it's an easy choice?" Lancelot asked the scout a few hours later, as they returned from the training ring, where they'd gone to see Gawain test some of the soldiers of Caer Brannum. It was late in the afternoon and the air was still quavering with heat. Tristan had discarded his tunic long ago, only leaving on his thinnest linen shirt, but it was soaked nonetheless. Lancelot's curls were plastered to his forehead.

"Aye," the scout answered evenly.

"And you do not think it is unfair to Eirian?"

Tristan shrugged. "Perhaps. Doesn't change the fact that it's either her or another war."

Lancelot pointed in the direction of the stables. "I want to see how Targitai is doing in this heat." The advisor looked at Tristan sideways, after they'd turned left. "I must say, I thought you'd be more on Gawain's side in this. He's against the idea of avoiding a war if it means sacrificing the girl."

Tristan shrugged again. "If we have to fight, we fight. But I am not going to war over that girl's ambitions. I still remember fifteen years of fighting for Rome's ambitions. I only fight for what _I _think is important now."

"And Meirion's daughter is not important?"

"Caer Brannum is important," Tristan replied. "But I could care less about who sits on its throne."

"Unfortunately Eirian doesn't seem to agree."

Tristan rubbed his cheek unconsciously, feeling his anger flare up again. "She doesn't."

They rounded the corner of the stables and walked in through the nearest entrance, a little door to the side, next to the saddle room. They were stopped in their tracks by two young voices, male and female.

"Yes, but Arwel was always so eager to help my father during his illness," Eirian said bitterly. "I should have known back then."

"How could you have known?" Rhodri protested. "He'd been in your father's service since the Roman days."

The knights were standing in a secluded part, shrouded in shadows, making them near invisible. Eirian was sitting on a bale of straw, twisting some of it around her fingers. Rhodri was pacing in front of her. He was covered in dust from head to toe. Eirian must have been waiting for him to return from his patrol.

"The nerve of him to go to the king," Rhodri seethed. "After the way he tried to force you into a marriage…"

"Well, that's not as hard to believe as the fact that the king turns out to be on _his_ side," Eirian scoffed. "It is so unfair."

"Haven't you always lectured me about how nothing was ever fair in politics?" the young man quipped.

Eirian scowled and aimed a kick at his shins. Rhodri chuckled, jumping out of the way in time.

"I don't know what to do, Rhodri," she sighed.

"Eirian," Rhodri said gently. He crouched in front of her, pulling the mangled straws from her fingers and covering them with his much larger ones. "You know that no matter what you decide to do, I'll support you."

The troubled expression on her face softened into a tender smile. "I know."

She gave a squeeze in one of his hands. Rhodri smiled back and lifted their intertwined hands, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

"Well, I'll be damned," Lancelot breathed surprised. "Arwel was right."

The pair was distracted by someone entering from the main entrance.

"What are you doing here?" Tegwen called out disappointedly.

Eirian disentangled her fingers from Rhodri's and stood. "No, Tegwen, what are _you_ doing here?" she demanded. "I told you to stay inside the domus."

"You can't keep me locked up there!" Tegwen cried indignantly.

"Watch me," Eirian hissed. "Now get back. You can show me how well you've studied today in a minute."

Tegwen huffed and ran off with balled fists.

"Maybe you should tell her what's going on," Rhodri suggested. "She'll understand why you want her to stay inside."

"I don't want to worry her," Eirian shook her head. "She's already been through too much. You know how fond she was of Ifan. When father died as well… I'd rather she's angry at me than worry about the Saxons and Arwel."

"As you wish," Rhodri complied.

"I am going to get changed for supper and prepare myself for another sparring match," Eirian said. She eyed her commander. "Go take a bath, you're filthy."

Rhodri grinned and patted his tunic, making dust swirl up around him. "Aye, well, at least I worked hard today."

"Oh, shut up."

"Yes, my lady."

Eirian snorted and walked out of the stables, followed by the commander.

"Gods," Lancelot groaned. "I knew I should have taken Bors up on his offer to visit his village, instead of coming to this serpents' nest. Arthur will not be happy to hear this."

Tristan knew Lancelot was just moaning for the sake of it. This was what he loved. "Go see to your horse," he snapped. "That's why we're here."

"You're angry," Lancelot frowned. "Why?"

Tristan clenched his jaw. "I don't like deceit."

Lancelot made a noncommittal sound. "Technically speaking, it's not deceit. Nobody has asked her if she and Rhodri were… ah, what to call it? Intimate?"

The glare Tristan sent his brother's way spoke volumes.

"Right," Lancelot smirked. "You disagree."

Fedir pushed his nose against his master's chest. Tristan acknowledged the request for attention with a rub between the stallion's eyes. Intrigue, he thought. He hated it. But Lancelot was in his element. The scout could almost _hear_ his brother mull his newly gained information over.

They strolled back to the domus in silence. There was a deep crease between Lancelot's brows that indicated he was still brooding. Tristan welcomed the quiet, which meant he could order his own thoughts. What the hell was she doing? What else was she hiding? Had it started even before her husband's death? Gods, why did it even bother him?

They walked inside, where a servant was waiting for them. The boy bowed deeply. "The king asks for your presence in his rooms. It is urgent."

Lancelot thanked the child and exchanged a nonplussed look with the scout. The servant ran off outside. "Think he is going to get Gawain?"

"Probably."

Indeed, Arthur asked them to wait for Gawain when they arrived. Gawain entered a few moments later, covered in sweat and dirt, and sunburnt. "What's going on?" he panted. "The boy said it was urgent."

"Sit down," Arthur said. His face was tight. "I spoke with Arwel today about his attempt to compromise Eirian. He told me the plan was a decision he and part of Meirion's council had made for a specific reason."

"What's that?" Lancelot asked.

"Rhodri," Arthur sighed. "According to Arwel, Eirian was… closer to him than was appropriate. They feared the two would elope."

"You must be kidding," Gawain gaped. "I do not know what to make of Eirian, but she does not seem to be stupid enough for such an action."

Lancelot rolled his eyes heavenwards. "Think again, Gawain. Guess what Tristan and I just stumbled upon in the stables."

"The _stables_?" Gawain parroted, whipping his head towards his brother. He fought a small grin, but failed to hide it. "Well, that brings back memories."

"Lancelot, are you absolutely sure?" Arthur pressed.

"They were only speaking, nothing inappropriate," Lancelot answered. "But it was very obvious that they are _close_."

"We must know," Arthur continued. "Arwel told me something else. It seems Eirian's husband died in suspicious circumstances."

"Fell of his horse and broke his neck, didn't he?" Gawain frowned. "Rhodri told me."

"Ifan was one of the best horsemen in the kingdom," Arthur said. "He wouldn't have just fallen off."

"A spooked horse?" Gawain suggested.

Lancelot groaned. "It fits all very neatly, doesn't it? Eirian is married off at a young age to secure the succession. Unfortunately, the husband isn't interested in politics, so Meirion has to change his plans. If his son-in-law will not rule, he will have to instruct his daughter. Eirian is educated and turns out to be quite fond of politics. She also finds a man more suited to her interests, Rhodri. The husband dies conveniently after Meirion falls ill, and just like that the way is clear for Eirian to rule her lands with the man she wants by her side."

"All she had to do was persuade her father not to marry her off again and wait until he died," Gawain finished, sounding stunned.

"And what fatally ill, old man would deny his weeping daughter her wish to stay and care for him?" Lancelot nodded.

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose.

Lancelot raised an eyebrow. "Headache?"

"Yes, Lancelot," Arthur replied exasperatedly. "Headache."


	5. Support

**A/N: Lots of thanks to Sachita, Lady of Lochaber, madluv, Luckylily and Rachel (I'm glad you like my take on Tristan. I think his behaviour in the film – and what's going on in his head – is open to very different interpretations.)**

Rated **T **for bawdy knights' language.

* * *

**Support**

Supper that night was extremely uncomfortable. Conversation was light, but it was not difficult to detect an undercurrent of tension and suspicion. Eirian was a perfect picture of courteousness, but her eyes revealed the way she weighed everything the king and the knights said and stored all of it in her mind for further investigation.

Lancelot had decided to work on Rhodri to see if he could coax some more information from him, but the young man hadn't even needed the warning look from his lady to keep himself mannerly but reserved.

Arwel, who had to have been curious about how the king would treat Eirian after his revealing the relationship between Eirian and Rhodri and the accusation of murder, seemed to be slightly disappointed at Arthur's unrevealing cordiality.

The others mostly kept to their plate, occasionally joining in when they were asked something, but not initiating any conversation.

Tristan went to bed early, but the muggy night air prevented him from getting much sleep. He rose just after dawn and dressed for a long day in the saddle. A few days ago he'd found a small dale near the Saxon border on one of Rhodri's maps and he wanted to explore it for himself to see how well it could be defended. After all the patrols he'd supervised the last week, he was itching to be in the open air by himself for a while.

The kitchen staff was a little bit more used to his presence now, so he was fairly certain he could break his fast quickly and convince the cook to pack him some food to sustain him for the day.

The cook smiled at him when he came in. Tegwen was sitting at the table, peeling apples and cutting them into parts. It was the third time he'd seen her in the kitchen. She was often up at dawn, being sent to her rooms early at night because she was not allowed to sup with the guests, as she had told him last time they'd met in the kitchen.

"Tegwen," he nodded. "Heledd."

Pleased as the woman was that he had remembered her name, it was not difficult at all to get her to leave her preparations for breakfast and fill his saddlebag with food.

Tegwen pushed a few apple slices in his direction as he settled with his bowl of servants' breakfast. "I'm helping Heledd with breakfast," she explained unasked. "I haven't got anything to do, not since Eirian told me to stay in the villa. She doesn't have time to help me with my lessons either."

Tristan grunted. The last thing he was interested in, was talking about the child's homicidal sister.

"Eirian doesn't like you very much," Tegwen commented casually.

He reached his arm across the table and put a slice of apple in his mouth, giving the girl an unconcerned look.

"She said you were an utter bastard," she continued airily, stabbing her knife into a new apple to cut it in half.

Tristan choked on his bit of apple.

"Well, not to _me_," Tegwen pointed out defensively. "She was speaking to Rhodri. She said some more things that weren't very nice." She glanced at him with her head tilted. "What did you do?"

The impertinence of the girl, assuming it was him who'd been at fault. How unfortunate that she was right. Despite himself, Tristan was somewhat curious as to what else had come out of Eirian's mouth.

"What did she say?"

"Something about having your head up your – well, you know where and having planted that you-know-what up your high horse." She caught his look. "I think she was quite angry with you. What did you –?"

"I do not think your sister would appreciate you telling me this," Tristan replied sternly, pushing back his irritation with the elder sister.

Tegwen blushed beet-red. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said such things."

"Probably not." He turned his attention to his breakfast, hoping to have stemmed the continuous flow of words from Tegwen.

"It's just that Ifan used to come into the kitchens a lot too. We broke fast together often," she babbled on. "He used to go away early and not come back for days at a time. It always made father very angry."

Tristan stopped eating, his interest piqued. "What did your sister think of that?"

"She didn't really mind it if he was away. She was always busy with other things," Tegwen shrugged. "She was mostly with father. She and Ifan didn't speak much to each other."

The girl sighed. "I don't believe she was very happy with him. But I liked Ifan; he was always very kind to me. He taught me how to ride a horse." She grabbed a new apple, twisting the stem to remove it. "She was a year older than I am right now when she was married. I suppose I'll be married soon too. I hope I like my husband better than she did hers."

Fourteen. Meirion had married his daughter off at fourteen. He'd apparently picked up a few Roman habits during his days as a magistrate.

"Do you like your wife?"

Tristan blinked at the personal question. "I'm not married."

"Oh, you're a widower. I'm sorry," she hastily apologised.

"No, I'm not."

"You've not been married before?" she asked surprised. "Never? But you're so –" She clapped a hand over her mouth.

"Old?" Tristan suggested.

Her eyes widened. "I wasn't going to say that," she objected quickly.

He smirked. "Of course not."

It took her a while to recover from her near-insult of the knight, which allowed Tristan to finish his porridge in peace. He drained his cup and made to stand, but Tegwen's next enquiry stopped him.

"Why not?" she asked. "Why aren't you married?"

Tristan's unsettling stare caused her to drop her gaze to the table. "Sorry," she mumbled. "I didn't mean to pry."

He rolled his eyes and stepped over the bench, picking up his saddle bag on his way out. Women.

* * *

Tristan followed the road through Caer Brannum's valley for a while. The sun was already making him sweat, but thanks to the spot of rain from last night and the slight breeze today it was bearable. He breathed in deeply, the sharp scent of grass and hay mixing with the sweeter aroma of wildflowers.

The sides of the road were covered in the white of daisies and soapwort. Beyond that, lush green pastures with fat cows, grazing lazily. Wheat and barley was standing tall in the fields, waving gently in the wind. In the meadows higher up Tristan spotted the white flecks of sheep.

The next valley had men and women working in the fields close to the village, onions and carrots and cabbage making neat rows, surrounded by hedges of hawthorn with honeysuckle threaded through them. They wiped the sweat from their forehead with their sleeves, nodding at him as he rode by, already accustomed to the royal knight wandering through their land.

He crossed the valley, riding towards its south entrance, which led to the small dale bordering on Bercia. It was the shortest and easiest way from Bercia's stronghold to Caer Brannum and thus the most likely route the Saxons would take if they wanted to attack.

Crossing the river to the south east of here was another option, but it meant that an army not only had to march through the swamp that lay in Bercia's territory, but also get across a narrow pass which was nigh on inaccessible to large groups of people.

Only spies and scouts would be slipping through there. No, if the Saxons came in force, they would be coming through this dale.

It was already a part of Rhodri's defence plan.

Fedir nickered when Tristan suddenly tightened his grip on the reins. His mind had jumped from Rhodri straight to the boy's devious lady, something he had been hoping to avoid all day.

There were a few questions that refused to leave his mind, however. Was Eirian a murderess? To figure that out, they would have to find an answer to another question. How deep did her ambitions run and how ruthless was she in fulfilling them?

The odds weren't exactly in her favour. If she was willing to go to war to defend her claim on Caer Brannum, would she have let one, single person in the shape of an inadequate husband stand in her way?

Probably not.

Was Rhodri involved? The apprentice who was supposedly more loyal to his lady than to his tutor, but who simply turned out to be her lover? How ambitious was _he_? He'd helped her cast out Arwel, the man who'd trained and educated him, and had taken her commander's place. How eager had he been to take her husband's place?

Tristan released an annoyed sigh. Politics. He despised the diplomatic tip-toeing that would ensue around this issue. Those two should just be faced with what they were accused of.

Eirian had told Rhodri that she didn't know what to do. Obviously, she was not as self-assured as she pretended to be. A twenty-year-old girl was not going to last long in a head-to-head confrontation with either the king or one of his knights.

But of course there were other things to consider. The relationship between Camelot and Caer Brannum, the fact that Eirian might be innocent – not very likely, Tristan snorted. She would balk at being accused of murder. Who knew what she would do then?

* * *

Even though she had not been accused of murder yet, it seemed Eirian had been roused into action nonetheless. What she had done became clear five days later. The queen rode in with a small train of companions. The king and Eirian were waiting for her at the entrance of the villa. Eirian sank into the deepest bow Tristan had seen of her.

Lancelot leaned closer to him. "For someone moaning to her lover about not knowing what to do, she certainly came up with an idea soon enough," he murmured.

Tristan answered with an ill-tempered grunt. One of Eirian's men had told the king and the knights of Guinevere's arrival in the valley and they were none the wiser about the reason for the queen's unpredicted visit. But they could guess.

"Guinevere," Arthur greeted his wife, helping her down her horse.

The queen jumped down lightly, her hands on her husband's shoulders. "Arthur," she smiled, kissing him quickly.

"An unexpected pleasure," he said. "And you have brought all the men who have served me since I was a commander with you. I assume you have a reason for depriving Camelot of its leadership?" His eyes flicked to Galahad, Bors, and Dagonet, who were dismounting. Dinadan was also among them.

"Yes, Arthur," she smiled again, the courtier's smile that she had cultivated for the last eight years, since she'd been married and crowned, all in one day. Turning to Eirian, who was still on one knee, her black skirts carefully arranged around her, she said, "Good day, lady Eirian. How are you faring?"

Eirian stood slowly and elegantly. "I am well, my lady."

"You are still wearing black," the queen observed.

Eirian bent her head. "I mourn the loss of my father and my husband still, my lady."

Tristan looked upon her sad and gentle attitude with absolute distaste. The woman was lying through her teeth.

"I was sorry to hear of their passing," Guinevere answered kindly.

"Thank you, my lady," Eirian replied. "Please, I have refreshments prepared."

The queen expressed her thanks and introduced Eirian to the knights with her. The two women strolled into the villa with Arthur, followed by the other men, who were greeting each other with slaps on the back.

"So what is going on here?" Galahad demanded to know immediately. "The queen had our arses dragged from our beds and put on a horse before I could even say goodbye to my wife."

"You're in for a treat then, when you return," Lancelot grinned.

"So is Bors," Galahad nodded seriously.

"Aye, I've always found it remarkable that you married the daughter that looked the most like her mother," Lancelot drawled. "Been harbouring secret feelings for Vanora all along?"

"Nah, he just wasn't quick enough to run away when little Fflur came after him," Gawain snorted. "You know Galahad. All wide-eyed innocence until he finds himself him tied up with his breeches around his ankles."

The laughter that ensued was loud and raucous enough for the queen and the lady to turn their heads. When they looked in front of themselves again, Lancelot asked, "So how is your courtship of Gwenllian going, Dag? Making any progress?"

"What do you mean, progress?" Bors roared. "He says nothing, she says nothing. I don't even know what you mean by courtship!"

"No, you wouldn't know," Gawain laughed.

"Stay out of it," Dagonet warned, an exasperated tone in his voice that indicated he'd heard it all before.

"She still won't say much, though?" Gawain inquired. "Maybe you should stop scaring the poor girl then."

"Doesn't she have an equally silent sister that we can marry off to Tristan?" Dinadan suggested. "I've had my eye on his rooms at the castle for years, but the bastard just won't leave!"

Another gale of laughter rang through the villa.

"Consider yourself sent on a three-day patrol by dawn next morning," Tristan replied unperturbedly. "Gawain, find him a couple of new recruits to tag along and bother him."

"That's _your_ idea of punishment, Tristan," Dinadan laughed. "Not mine."

The newly arrived knights were settled in guest rooms and allowed to clean up before they were summoned to Arthur's rooms.

"Where is Guinevere?" Lancelot asked.

"She is speaking to Eirian at the moment," Arthur replied. "It seems that Eirian sent a messenger to her a few days ago, pleading for help."

Lancelot raised a black eyebrow. "Clever," he commented.

"I am starting to feel left out," Galahad said. "What's been going on here?"

Lancelot told his brothers-in-arms about the events of the fortnight they'd been staying here. It stirred up a storm of discussions the moment Lancelot had finished. Arthur knew his men well enough to let the noise dwindle before he would even attempt to speak.

"What are you going to do, Arthur?" Dagonet asked. The voices of the other men died down.

"I haven't decided yet," Arthur answered.

The door opened and Guinevere came in, still in her travel clothes. Her mouth was tight and her eyes narrow slits of rich, earthy brown. "You asked me, Arthur, when I arrived, whether there was a reason I had brought the knights who've been with you the longest with me," she said, closing the door behind her.

"Yes," Arthur replied.

"There is," Guinevere said. "Three days ago I received a message from Eirian. She begged for my help, because her king, my husband, and his knights were coercing her into relinquishing her rights on her father's lands. And for what reason? So that a few of her king's other allies would not be tempted to start quarrelling over her lands."

"Guinevere," Arthur intercepted her. "You know it is more complicated than that."

Guinevere's eyes flashed. "Oh no, husband. It comes down to precisely _that_. I am sure there are many arguments defending your course of action – I have just had Eirian recite them herself. You seem to have done an excellent job of pounding them into her head."

"Didn't seem like it," Tristan muttered.

"_You_," she hissed. "Do not even get me started on you, Tristan."

"Guinevere!"

"What on earth did you think you were doing?" she snapped at the scout, ignoring her husband calling her name.

Tristan did not reply, but folded his arms and leaned against the wall.

"Mind telling me what this is about?" Lancelot inquired friendly.

"How did you phrase it to her, Tristan? If we can keep the peace in the kingdom by sacrificing one girl's petty ambition, we won't lose one night of sleep over it. How accurate is that?"

"Oh, gods," Lancelot groaned.

"You and your silver tongue, Tristan," Dinadan snorted. "No wonder you speak so little."

"When did you…" Gawain began, confused.

"Yes, Tristan," Guinevere continued waspishly. "A fine way to show how Camelot repays its subjects' loyalty." She leaned forward in his direction a little, a smirk on her full lips. "How's your face? I hope it is still hurting from the way she repaid _you_."

Silence in the room. And stares. Tristan doubted now was the right time to inform the queen that Eirian had had it coming with her remarks.

"Well, Tris, how long had it been since a woman took a swing at you?" Bors's mouth was quivering with suppressed laughter. Galahad quickly turned a chuckle into a cough.

"What else have you been doing in your spare time here?" Lancelot asked him, both bemused and angry.

Guinevere wasn't finished yet. "Indeed. What _has_ he been doing? Not only did Eirian have Arwel intrude on her and threaten her when she was already retired for the night, but Tristan found it necessary to do the same once he'd left."

There were gaping mouths now.

"Tristan…" Arthur began ominously.

This was going too far. "She was in the garden," he said. "I saw the exchange between her and Arwel and I told her she had some things to explain to Arthur."

"In her _nightgown_," Guinevere added. "You were purposefully intimidating her, Tristan."

Well, he could not deny that.

"See," Galahad said to Gawain. "I always miss out on the best things."

"Apparently, so do I," Gawain replied, one tawny eyebrow raised at the scout.

"Arthur," Guinevere addressed her husband and king, "what is going on here? You were going to Caer Brannum to speak to Eirian about her reasons for exiling Arwel. I have heard those reasons and I am surprised she did not have him executed for conspiracy. I would have been less merciful, and you also. Why are you supporting Arwel in this and trying to get her to step aside?"

"Eirian may have been responsible for her husband's death," Arthur answered.

"Ifan died in an accident," Guinevere frowned.

"He was an excellent horseman," Lancelot answered. "He wouldn't have just fallen off."

"Really?" Guinevere retorted. "I seem to remember a fair amount of times when you all swallowed a bit of dust."

Arthur revealed a snippet of information that neither Tristan nor the other knights had heard before. "The girth of his saddle was nearly cut through. It snapped while he was riding."

"So that rules out an accident," Galahad remarked.

"Who told you this?" Guinevere asked.

"Arwel," her husband answered. "I spoke with him about his attempt to compromise Eirian into a marriage. He, along with most of Meirion's council, feared that she was behind it, so that she could elope with Rhodri."

"_Arwel_ told you?" Guinevere said. "And you believe the man who tried to usurp Caer Brannum over the word of its lawful heir?"

"I have not spoken with Eirian about this yet, so I have not decided yet."

Guinevere pinched the bridge of her nose in a way that was identical to her husband. "So, Arwel claims that Eirian got rid of her husband to be free to marry Rhodri?"

Lancelot and the king nodded.

"That makes no sense at all," the queen commented mercilessly. "Ifan did not care for politics. The marriage was not a happy one, but it was the perfect union for Eirian. Ifan did not stand in her way to rule Caer Brannum. Why would she want to be free of him?"

"Rhodri," Gawain answered.

"Rhodri is politically insignificant," Guinevere said. "Eirian wouldn't have even looked twice at him for a husband."

"Only she did," Lancelot objected and told the queen of the incident in the stables.

Guinevere was not impressed. "You saw him kissing Eirian's hand? And how many times have you kissed my hand, Lancelot? Or you, Gawain? Are you two plotting to kill my husband and marry me as well?"

"It's different," Lancelot objected. "They were close."

"No matter what happened between those three, it is not the main issue," Arthur intervened, cutting off the discussion. "Even if she were innocent of this, she is still a danger to the safety of the kingdom. I am not asking her to step aside, Guinevere. I am asking her to make a strong marriage that would keep the other lords as well as the Saxons in their place."

"If she marries, her husband will rule Caer Brannum," Guinevere stated. "She will have to step aside. Of course she is refusing."

"Not necessarily," Arthur replied with a faint smile. "You sit at my side."

"Your lords are not like you," Guinevere said, not responding to the king's smile. "And do not forget that I have given up my leadership with the Woads when I married you. Men who used to follow me without thinking now only do so by your grace."

Arthur looked thoroughly taken aback. "Guinevere, I would never –"

She held up her hand. "I know. I know that, Arthur. I have willingly chosen to give it up for you. I would do it again in a heartbeat if I had to. But it does not change the way things are. Do not force Eirian to give it up. You might gain a safer Caer Brannum, but you will lose a faithful subject's respect."

"Is that worth a war?" Lancelot asked gravely.

"Yes, Lancelot," Guinevere said firmly. "That is worth a war. It is why I insisted on having all of the oldest knights present here. You were there when this kingdom was created. You witnessed the moment that Arthur's Round Table truly became what it stands for. Equality. No man more important than the other. Nobody _less_ important than the other."

She looked them all in the eye. "From this day onward, all Britons will be united under one common cause. Freedom," she said. "Freedom. The right to live free in your own land, to choose your own destiny."

She turned to Arthur. "These are the words that you spoke when you were crowned king, the reasons that made Meirion your first ally. Are you truly, willingly going to take that away from his daughter?"

* * *

It was brilliantly done. Guinevere's questions had ensured that only one answer was possible. Arthur would never turn his back on the principles that had founded his realm. And if supporting Eirian was the course that Arthur was going to take, then Tristan would stand by him, as always.

He sighed irritably. It didn't change the fact that the lady did not sit well with him. There were too many rumours around her, too much suspicion, too much intrigue. All of the things he disliked, centred around a spoilt, privileged woman.

There was a part of him that resented her for spilling what had happened between the two of them, though he could not deny that he appreciated the audaciousness that had made her go directly to the queen. Eirian played to win.

And she had won.

She had used the confrontation between herself and Tristan to win the queen over. Her reaction to him at the time had told him he had unnerved her, distressed her. He'd been sure she would never admit that, but she had. She had admitted it _and_ managed to use it to her advantage anyway.

Tristan sat up from his bed. Why hadn't she told the queen about the robe? His impropriety would have been perfect to add strength to her plea. But it was the only thing she had left out. The only thing that had truly unnerved her.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and put on his boots. Just as he left the room, he heard Gawain grumble, "Where are you going?"

"For a walk."

The royal commander turned on his back, blue eyes gleaming in the light of the candles in the room. "Don't do anything stupid, Tris. Arthur will have your hide."

"Go to sleep, mother hen."

"Fine," Gawain yawned. "It's your neck."

Tristan scoffed in reply as he left the room.

His prowling of the villa complex had left him with a clear knowledge of its construction. He knew where Eirian's rooms were. A small part of him was warning him he was deliberately making the same mistake. It was late, Eirian had already retired, and this time he was even heading directly to her chambers. There were many words for his behaviour, and prudent was not one of them.

The warning was silenced by his desire to confront the lady with her successful scheming.

He knocked on her door. It opened, revealing one of the lady's maids. "Oh!" she exclaimed.

"I wish to speak to your lady."

"She is not here, sir," the girl said, and only now Tristan noticed that the maid was still fully dressed despite the late hour.

"Where is she?"

"She has not returned from her bath yet," she said, recovering from her surprise. "If it is important, you can wait in her chambers, sir."

"No, thank you," he said and turned around. The maid bobbed a little curtsy and closed the door.

His mind was telling him – urging him – to go back to his bed.

His feet were taking him in the other direction.

A maid was waiting in front of the bathing room, sitting on a stool and nodding off. Her head jerked up when she heard his approach.

"I am sorry, sir," she said. "The bathing room is in use at the moment."

"I know," he snapped. "Tell your lady I wish to speak to her immediately."

"She is still taking her bath, sir," the maid protested.

He contemplated brushing past the maid and hauling the lady out of the water himself, but apparently he had some sense left and merely threatened the maid with it, despite the disturbingly vivid image of Eirian's glistening white skin his mind presented him with.

The maid's jaw had dropped when he voiced his threat and she hurried into the bathing room, slamming the door closed. Tristan stared at the decorated oak as he willed himself to focus while waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

Surely she was not calling his bluff?

The door and wall allowed no sound to penetrate. What game was the woman playing? Tristan tried to curb his temper, but he lost out to it quickly. He grabbed the handle and swung the door open.

The sunken bath was empty. A trail of wet footsteps, reflecting the light of a fire in the hearth, led to a sofa in the corner of the room. Eirian was sitting on it, wrapped up in a robe, a maid gently wringing water from her hair.

"I see your impudence has no bounds," she said sharply. When he did not reply, she added, "How dare you intrude on me like this?"

She _had_ been testing him, wanting to see what he'd do if she did not come out to meet him. He grinned, briefly revealing sharp, white teeth. "Don't pretend to be surprised. You were expecting me to come in."

"Get out," she hissed.

He bowed. "Congratulations on your success with the queen. She has won the king over for you."

Something flickered over her face. Relief. It was quickly replaced with suspicion. "Is that what you came to speak to me about? You could not have waited until tomorrow to congratulate me?"

"The king will, of course, investigate the rumours concerning you and your late husband," he continued, not answering her question. "And his _convenient_ passing away just before your father died."

She blanched. "Leave me," she ordered her maids, pulling the towel out of the hands of the girl that was still tending to her hair. The servants hesitated, eyes skipping from their mistress to the dark knight. "Now."

They filed out of the door. Eirian stood, tossing the towel onto the sofa. "What exactly are you suggesting, Tristan?" she snapped.

"Murderess. Adulteress," he summed up, sauntering closer to her. "I've heard a great deal of names for you."

"I have done no such things," she denied.

"That is for the king to decide."

"So this is why you are here," she said. "To torment me. See if you can get a confession out of me."

"Maybe," he shrugged. He took in her guarded face, the bright blue eyes that were staring at him distrustfully, the pink lips that still made an attractive full curve, even though they were pressed together firmly.

"You do have quite a mouth on you."

"I _beg_ your pardon?"

"Who can predict what words come out of it?"

She was trying to read his face, but there was nothing to see. "An utter bastard who has his head up his arse and his arse planted upon his high horse," Tristan quoted blankly.

Eirian's lips parted slightly in shock. She swallowed and lifted her chin up to him. "Was I speaking any untruth there?" she deadpanned.

His mouth twitched in amusement. "Maybe not. But I would advise you to take more care with your words when there are little birds around."

"Noted, sir," she drawled.

He inclined his head, intending to leave now that he'd said what he'd come to say. He straightened and turned around, but froze when Eirian spoke again. "Does the king acknowledge my claim to rule Caer Brannum in my own right?"

Tristan turned back. "The queen made a strong case for you."

She nodded. "Even if it means war with the Saxons?"

"Aye."

Tilting her head, she looked at him with half-lidded eyes. "Are you going to fight, sir Tristan?"

"For Arthur, aye," he replied. He did not like where this was going.

"And if your king asks you to, you will defend me?" she asked, the look in her eyes becoming almost predatory.

He curled his toes in his boots. "Aye," he spat out.

Her lips twisted into a mocking smile. "How does it feel, Tristan, having to fight for one girl's petty ambitions?"

He could barely restrain himself. Nostrils flaring, he took a deep breath to calm himself. Eirian looked at the fury on his face with triumph. "Good night," she said tauntingly. "Sleep well."

His arm shot out when she walked past him, catching her around the waist and jerking her towards him. "Let me go," she commanded, glaring up at him.

"You play a dangerous game, Eirian," he snarled. "With very high stakes."

"You do not scare me," she said haughtily.

"Once Arthur finds out you've killed your husband, it'll cost you your head."

The arrogance slid from her face. "You are certain I have murdered Ifan. You think I am a killer," she replied slowly. "Well, I suppose it takes one to know one."

He did not rise to the insult. "You do not deny it?"

"Who are you to judge me? Have you not stood knee-deep in blood, with gore dripping from your sword?"

He smirked when she threw his own words back at him. "I might have more blood on my hands than you, but of all the things I did – and enjoyed doing," he said, noting the apprehensive widening of her eyes as he told her that, "adultery was not one of them. Unlike you."

"I do not know what you mean."

"Rhodri," he hissed at her.

"Rhodri? Rhodri and I are lovers? Who gave you that idea?" she asked and gave a little laugh. "Why, you do think very highly of me, don't you?" She chortled shortly, and smoothed her face into a devout expression. "I promise you I have always been a true wife to my dearly beloved husband."

"You claim you have been faithful to your husband?" Tristan sneered.

"Of course."

"You claim to be virtuous?"

"Yes."

"Then why are you still here? Alone, in a bathing room no less, pressed up against a stranger with his blood-stained hands all over you?" His right hand slid downwards over her back, the robe she was wearing doing little to hide the curves underneath it.

Her face paled as she realised her situation. "Unhand me," she demanded.

His hand on her back stilled its journey, but pressed her closer to him. Her breath hitched, and not all of it was fear. "Break loose," he replied. "Prove it."

Defiance sparked in her eyes. "I do not have to prove myself to you."

Her wet hair was soaking her shoulders and dark brown strands were clinging to her neck. Tristan locked his eyes on the bit of pale flesh there, which was pulsing in time with her rapid heartbeat. He was taking this too far, he knew it, much too far, but his fingers were already swiping the moist strands away. He tightened his hold around her waist.

"Stop it," she said, louder this time.

Tristan bowed his head, inhaling the scent of her skin and the soap she had used. He could feel her panting breath against his neck. "Let go of me then," he murmured, his lips touching her ear.

It seemed to take a while for his words registered, but finally Eirian looked down, to where her hands were gripping his sleeves tightly. She pushed him away from her, yanking the soaked neck of her robe closed. "Are you mad?" she hissed.

She shot him a look of pure outrage, before she stormed away.

Tristan ran his hands through his hair. Gods, maybe he was.


	6. Accusations

**A/n: Thanks everybody, for reading and reviewing. I hope you haven't given up on this story... Please let me know what you think!**

* * *

Accusations

Rhodri and Ithel took the newly arrived knights on a tour of Caer Brannum the next morning. Lancelot, Gawain, and Tristan decided to join in. Afterwards, Rhodri told them he had some training to oversee and invited the knights for a bit of sparring.

At a relaxed pace, Tristan went to fetch his weapons, lifting his hand in response to Gawain, who shouted at him to bring along his weapons as well, as the commander was walking with Rhodri in the direction of the training area. He'd been spending time with Rhodri every day to further his education and prepare him for his role as military commander.

There had been a significant cooling in the relationship between the two commanders since Arwel's accusations of adultery and murder, but since none of it was proven yet, Gawain was unfailingly civil and continued his tutoring, albeit with much more distance.

As Tristan entered the domus, he ran into the king and queen, who were just about to walk outside with Eirian. Tristan suffered the acid glare of two pairs of eyes, while he informed Arthur of the training that was about to begin.

"I'll have a look for myself," the king said.

"We'll join you later," Guinevere spoke, and linked her arm with Eirian's. "I wish to see the town."

They walked past the two men, followed by a train of servants and guards. Arthur sighed. "It looks like it will be a while before you are back in my wife's good graces."

Tristan shrugged resignedly. "Not entirely undeserved."

"Care to tell me what made you act so… unlike you?"

"There's something about her that does not add up."

Arthur gave his knight a scrutinizing look, but did not comment any further, leaving it unsaid that there had been many other persons that had not "added up" over the years; none of whom had provoked much reaction from the scout at all.

"I'll see you in the training area," Arthur said. "And Tristan, perhaps you could relay your suspicions to Lancelot or me, instead of investigating on your own. We cannot lose Caer Brannum as an ally."

Tristan nodded.

He collected his and Gawain's weapons from their room and headed back. Several of Caer Brannum's soldiers were undergoing Gawain's merciless sword practice, while Rhodri was standing to the side with Arthur, listening to the king's explanations.

Tristan whistled sharply, interrupting Gawain's constant stream of bellowed corrections and encouragements. He threw the axe and mace at their owner. Gawain caught them easily, resuming his instructions instantly.

After an hour of constant repetition of movements, Gawain allowed the soldiers to dunk their heads into a trough of water and drink a few sips. He walked over to Rhodri and Arthur, who were still standing together.

The soldiers were then paired off and ordered to spar, while Gawain and Rhodri and the knights watched their every move. Arthur was distracted by the arrival of his wife and lady Eirian, who came to stand beside him.

More instructions from the two commanders followed and the soldiers changed partners.

"I wouldn't mind a little exercise myself," Lancelot commented. "I've been sitting on my arse for a fortnight here."

"Challenging me?" Tristan inquired, glancing sideways at his comrade.

Lancelot smirked. "Only if you're up for it, greybeard."

Tristan narrowed his eyes. "Still all talk, eh?"

"Careful, lads," Bors grinned. "No bloodshed. We mustn't scare our neighbours."

Lancelot sauntered to an open spot in the middle of the training area, catching the sword Galahad tossed at him with one hand. He gave a mock little bow and waited for Tristan to follow.

Tristan unsheathed his trusted curved blade and handed the scabbard to Bors, his eyes fixed on his waiting opponent. He approached Lancelot, twirling the blade in his hand once. His comrade responded with an exaggerated examination of his borrowed blade, making Tristan's lips twitch. Lancelot could always be trusted to make a show of his skills.

It had been quite some time since they'd faced off, but Tristan knew Lancelot's movements nearly as well as his own. The advantage the curly-haired knight had over most warriors was the equal strength in both his arms, which allowed him to fight with two identical blades. Now that he had only one sword, he would certainly be using that strength in another way.

Tristan knew Lancelot could switch hands in between swings so quickly that it created openings for a strike where there were none for a warrior who favoured one hand. There was no such thing as an easy bit of sparring with Lancelot.

While Lancelot finished his show by breathing on the blade and rubbing it with his sleeve, earning himself loud laughs from his fellow knights, Tristan licked his upper teeth in concentration. His eyes skimmed his surroundings for a moment and they found Eirian staring at him intently.

He held her gaze long enough for a slight blush to start spreading from her neck to her face. He let his eyes wander over her figure at his leisure, making sure they lingered at her neck. She stiffened and crossed her arms defensively, but caught herself in the act. She uncrossed them immediately again and took a more relaxed stance, clasping her hands in front of her, though her skin was still flushed.

Having successfully rattled her, Tristan turned his attention back to Lancelot, who was giving him a most peculiar look.

Tristan raised an eyebrow. "A man could fall asleep waiting for you to get ready."

Lancelot glanced at Eirian, who seemed every part the calm lady again, except for the way she absolutely refused to look their way. "Didn't seem like you had trouble staying awake."

He didn't respond.

"Thin ice, Tris," Lancelot continued. "Very thin ice."

"You're proving my theory right."

"What's that?"

"All talk."

"You know," Lancelot drawled, "we'd understand if you felt bored and in need of some diversion in your life, but there are more healthy ways of dealing with that than getting yourself wrapped up in an adulteress with a murderous streak. I'm sure Gawain can come up with a few lovely suicide missions for you, if you ask nicely."

Tristan gave him the blankest of looks and took a fighting stance.

"Ah, the old brick wall," Lancelot sighed. "Been a while since I saw that." He tossed his sword to his right hand and prepared himself. "Very well."

Tristan measured his opponent as they slowly began to circle each other. Judging from the all-too-conspicuous smirk on Lancelot's face, the royal advisor was in no mood for a serious fight, which was a clear indication for Tristan to be even more on his guard.

Lancelot tested the waters with a straightforward swing, which the scout blocked with ease. The blades separated with that metallic, scraping noise which was one of Tristan's favourite sounds.

Tristan resumed his defensive stance, his eyes glittering, while Lancelot's mouth widened into a wicked grin. Slowly they began to circle each other. They ignored the encouraging shouts from the onlookers, their eyes trained on each other.

Twice more their blades met without any result, but the third time Lancelot blocked Tristan's swing and turned his body inwards, ready to deliver a blow to Tristan's gut with his elbow. The scout danced backwards, pushing Lancelot's blade away at the same time.

Knowing this was not going to be a clean fight, Tristan tsked disapprovingly at the royal advisor, which made Lancelot laugh. They engaged again and again, blocking and parrying and searching for a non-existent opening in the other's defence, until their breathing became laboured and sweat poured down their frames, plastering their hair and shirts to their skin. Finally, Tristan succeeded where Lancelot had attempted, and planted his elbow between Lancelot's ribs.

Winded, the advisor staggered backwards, taking in Tristan's smirk with narrowed eyes. "Finally condescending to fight dirty, are we?" he drawled, after he had regained his breath. "And here I thought you were endeavouring to show your hostess that you do have a courteous, knightly side."

"There is no such thing as a courteous fight," Tristan answered.

"Well, I hope you haven't shattered any of the lady's beliefs," Lancelot snorted and winked at Eirian. She smiled indulgently at him.

"I doubt it," Tristan said, looking at Eirian from the corner of his eye. "I think the lady is already very familiar with the term 'using all means necessary'."

Eirian froze. Tristan turned to her and added, "I couldn't possibly teach her anything in that regard."

Lancelot stifled a groan. Tristan's remark had been loud enough for the onlookers to hear and their eyes flicked to and fro between the lady and the knight. Rhodri's face was turning a bright, angry red.

After an uncomfortable silence, Eirian began to smile languidly. "I doubt you could teach me anything at all, sir Tristan." She sauntered towards the two knights and raised her voice enough for all her warriors to hear. "I have already mastered the skill of fighting with all means necessary, as I would do and have done everything within my power to protect Caer Brannum. Indeed, you could not teach me anything in that regard."

Her men cheered at her defiant words.

She stopped in front of him and looked him up and down with the utmost contempt in her blue eyes. Leaning in, she continued with a lowered voice, "Aside from that, you do not possess a single, admirable quality that would entice me to learn anything else from you." She inclined her head, finishing, "Do enjoy the rest of your fight."

Tristan watched Eirian leave the training area, her black skirts swaying tauntingly behind her. _Public speech and insult all in one_, he thought, reigning in his temper, _that woman's most dangerous weapon is not her army, but her tongue._

He focussed his anger on the fight, not realising how viciously he was attacking, until the tip of his sword slid through Lancelot's upper sleeve, red blooming around the cut fabric instantly. Lancelot hissed through his teeth and examined the wound. "Wonderful. You might want to stitch that up, Dag," he called out to their fellow knight.

Tristan checked himself and apologised. Lancelot's dark, shrewd eyes fixed themselves on the scout's taut face. "And _you_ might want to ask Arthur if you could check up on things at Camelot. I don't think staying here is good for you." He glanced at his arm. "Or for us."

Tristan remained silent, but recognised the piece of advice for what it was and agreed with it. He resolved to speak with Arthur the same day. While they exited the training area, Gawain stayed behind to finish training, while Rhodri, who was standing next to him, turned to throw Tristan a loathing look. The scout returned a blank look, but knew he had made an enemy of the young commander.

Fortunately, Lancelot's wound was not very deep and was stitched neatly together by Dagonet, who estimated it would be healed in a fortnight or so.

Tristan took a bath to clean the sweat off him, but was too much reminded of the previous night and his encounter with Eirian to be able to relax. After dressing, he went to find Arthur and told him he wanted to see how Camelot was faring.

Arthur nodded thoughtfully. "Maybe that's what's best."

"I'll leave in the morning," Tristan said, glad to be in the presence of the lady for only one more night.

* * *

Eirian hosted a lavish supper in honour of the queen that evening. The two women were seated next to each other, the two dark-haired heads bent closely together in conversation. Guinevere was wearing an elaborately embroidered, purple gown that looked splendid on her. Eirian was dressed more soberly, but had shed the complete black she had worn thus far. Her gown was still made of black silk, which still give her some austerity, but the sleeves and neckline were lined with green, silk ribbons that made her skin look fair, instead of drawn.

Her veil was pushed back far enough for most of her hair to be revealed and the sheerness of the green material did little to hide the rest of it. Arthur's consent to support her had relieved the sternness of her features and for the first time she looked like the young woman that she was.

It did not go unnoticed. Rhodri was watching his lady with a faint smile, while her advisor, Ithel, looked upon her with fatherly contentment. Tegwen seemed to have relaxed in her sister's presence after the tensions of the last few weeks, though perhaps she was just thrilled at having been allowed to be present at the feast.

Eirian had invited her vassals as well and Tristan knew that the splendour of this evening was not just for the queen's pleasure only. This was politics at its best. Or rather, at Eirian's best. She paid the queen more than enough attention, but did not neglect her the men sworn to her. She introduced, flattered, started small-talk, and kept conversations going. Tristan thought it exhausting just to look at it.

And he was not the only one. Arwel, once again invited, had been watching Eirian without repose. He was brewing. His warnings about Eirian's adultery and involvement in her husband's murder had fallen on a deaf ear. The woman had exiled him and succeeded in gaining the king and queen's favour.

Arwel knew, Tristan realised, that he was only sitting at the table tonight, because Eirian wanted to show him off to her vassals. A fallen figure, stripped of his influence, because he had dared to go against her. Eirian was flaunting her victory, as well as warning her vassals.

The effect it had on the vassals was obvious, as they were vying for the lady's favour, Tristan observed with distaste. Another one of Eirian's successes. But he wondered if she'd taken into account the effect it had on Arwel himself. A political enemy was one thing, but her actions had humiliated him and made the conflict between them personal. It might just be the first mistake Tristan had witnessed her make.

Someone in Eirian's position could not afford to make mistakes.

Course after course was placed on the tables, adding lustre to Eirian's triumph and the wine flowed freely. Tristan was not one to imbibe, though he appreciated the quality that Eirian served.

The conversations grew louder, as did the laughter. Even Eirian looked cheerful, pale cheeks flushed and eyes glittering, though the scout suspected she was drunk on power, not on alcohol, since she had taken no more than two cups of wine.

"You seem to have recovered from the loss of your father and husband, lady Eirian," Arwel called out over the noise.

Eirian lowered her cup. "I find the company tonight greatly cheering, I must admit, yes," the lady replied politely.

"Do you not miss your husband?" Arwel continued, his face alight with a strange glow.

Tristan recognized a cornered animal when he saw one. Arwel only had one way out, and that was to attack.

"I mourn the loss of him," Eirian answered carefully. "He was unfailingly civil to me and a good brother to Tegwen."

_Civil_, Tristan thought. Not exactly an affectionate term to be used for a husband.

"Oh, I have no doubt that Tegwen misses him," said Arwel nastily. "But you, lady, spent less time with him than even your child sister did, going for a ride with him every once in a while. Taking you for a ride was not something he was eager to do, was he?"

The implications of that remark were not lost on anyone. Gasps could be heard across the entire room.

Eirian's face turned rigid.

"Arwel, I think you've said enough," Arthur commanded him.

"Forgive me, my lord, but I think Meirion's vassals would like to hear what his daughter did to her husband," Arwel replied.

"You dare to speak my father's name, after your treachery?" Eirian hissed. "After you tried to usurp my father's throne by forcing me into a marriage with you, after you threatened my sister?"

"I was only trying to remove a murderess from succeeding to my honourable lord's throne," said Arwel.

Tegwen was staring wide-eyed at her sister, who replied tight-lipped, "I did not murder Ifan. His death was an accident."

"His girdle was cut," Arwel threw back at her.

Eirian's face drained of colour.

"I see you have no retort to that," the former commander observed with satisfaction.

"Arwel, that is enough. Ifan's girdle may have been cut, but that is no proof that Eirian did this," Arthur boomed, temporarily subduing the chaos that had erupted in the room.

"For all we know," Queen Guinevere added, rising regally to her feet, "Ifan suffered his death at the hands of the person who then tried to claim the throne by trying to marry his widow."

"I am not that person," Arwel protested. "Eirian let another man into her bed even before her husband's death. A man I took for a loyal, honourable warrior and whom I asked for help in removing that abomination from my lord's throne. A man who followed his lust and revealed my intentions to _her_. After which they orchestrated my exile from Caer Brannum and have been living in sordid sin ever since. Unpunished for their adultery and murder."

"Hold your tongue!" Rhodri roared, jumping to his feet. "Or I'll cut it out!"

"Rhodri!" Eirian snapped.

"See!" Arwel cried. "The two of them have conspired every part of it!"

"You weave your web of lies, but have nothing to prove them," Eirian sneered arrogantly. She turned to her sister. "Tegwen, you're excused. I will see you in the morning."

But the girl did not obey. She was looking from her sister to Rhodri and back in bewilderment.

"Tegwen!" Eirian repeated.

"You never wanted to spend any time with Ifan," Tegwen said softly, her voice trembling. "He never did you any wrong, and you were always so cold to him. Every chance you had, you were with Rhodri."

"Tegwen…" Eirian said softly, shocked.

"It's true, isn't it?" Tegwen choked, backing away from her sister.

"No, Tegwen, it isn't," Eirian pressed.

"Did father know?"

"There was nothing to know."

"I'll bet he didn't. You were his favourite," Tegwen continued. "How could you?"

"Tegwen, stop this," Eirian ordered.

"How could you do this?" the girl shouted with balled fists. She looked with horrified disgust at Rhodri.

"Tegwen, please come with me," Guinevere told the girl and took her by the arm.

Not daring to say no to the queen, Tegwen followed meekly.

Eirian looked shaken, but gathered enough of her wit to order two guards to place Arwel under arrest in his room. The former commander's face was adorned with a satisfied smirk as he was being led away.

Eirian tried to hide the trembling of her hands by interweaving her fingers. She met the suspicious gazes of her vassals with a raised chin. "My lords, I must ask your forgiveness for this intrusion," she began. "Arwel has tried to usurp my position with force and with lies, and has now bitten the very hand that was extended to him in mercy. As it would seem, I was too lenient. His accusations are false. He only means to discredit me and Rhodri, his apprentice, who has stayed loyal to me and my father, instead of collaborating with Arwel in his treacherous scheme."

Eirian regained more and more of her composure as she went on.

"Unfortunately, Rhodri now suffers for his faithfulness with these vile accusations. As do I. I will tell you, my lords, if there were but a grain of truth in Arwel's words, I would not be standing here next to my King and Queen, who have been most gracious in their support of my case."

Tristan's breath stopped. The risk she was taking was tremendous. Arthur had to speak only a single word in denial and she would lose everything. The nerve of the woman was mind-boggling.

Arthur inclined his head, but his face was guarded. He was not ready to denounce her at this moment, but he was not without doubts.

Eirian soothed her vassals with more words and promises, until they retired for the evening. The knights stayed with Eirian and the king and waited for Guinevere to return.

"She has calmed down since I have spoken to her about Arwel," the queen told Eirian. "She knew very little of what had happened the last few months."

"I did not want to worry her," Eirian replied. "My father's death was hard on her. And when Ifan died as well… I did not know about the girdle," she frowned. "Rhodri, you knew about this."

The young commander bowed his head. "I did. Your father asked me and Arwel not to tell you about it."

"You should have told me," she chastised him.

"Forgive me, my lady, I did not want to break my promise to your father," Rhodri replied. "It is why I have the domus guarded so heavily. After Arwel informed me of his intention to marry you, I suspected he might have something to do with Ifan's death."

"You should have told me this," she repeated.

"Aye, I should have," he admitted.

"If word of this gets to Cymru and to Ifan's family, we'll have a new enemy," Eirian sighed.

Tristan shook his head, not believing what he heard. She had just found out that her husband had been murdered, and all she thought about were the political implications. He knew he wasn't the warmest person himself, but even he thought this was cold.

"Perhaps we should all get some sleep," Lancelot suggested. "Tomorrow we should speak on how to limit the damage Arwel has done. This will indeed go well beyond Caer Brannum and we need to discuss how we are going to counter the effects."

"Lancelot is right," Arthur nodded. "We should retire and get an early start tomorrow."

They separated, each heading to their own rooms. Eirian and Rhodri walked away together, Tristan noticed with suspicion.

"Are you coming, Tris?" Gawain asked.

He followed the blond knight and lay awake for a long time, trying to put all the pieces of this puzzle together, before sleep finally claimed him.

He was awoken what seemed like mere minutes later. A servant asked them to join Eirian in the atrium. The young man's urgent tone had them in their clothes in moments and they hastened to the atrium.

"Arwel is gone," Lancelot told them.

Eirian was pacing the length of the room, fuming.

"The two guards that were with him are gone too," the advisor continued. "The guards who came to relieve them alerted Rhodri. He is questioning them now."

A servant brought Eirian a cup of wine, which she downed in one gulp. Even now, Tristan thought, he could not read her. Was she innocent and fearing for her lands? Or was she simply worried that the truth would come out?

Tristan suddenly thought of the only truly innocent person in this mess. "Has anyone checked on Tegwen yet?" he inquired.

Eirian stopped and stared at him. "Oh, Lord," she moaned.

A handmaid ran off in the direction of Tegwen's rooms, while Eirian sank onto a little bench, her composure crumbling around her.

"Get me Rhodri," she told a footman, who shot off as well.

Eirian jumped to her feet when the handmaid returned running, a hand pressed against her chest. "My lady, I cannot find lady Tegwen."

"He took her," Eirian gasped. "Oh God, he took her." She staggered, grappling for her handmaid's arm. The girl sat her lady back down on the bench and called for more wine.

The knights exchanged alarmed glances.

"Where's Rhodri?" Eirian asked. "I need him. Oh, not Tegwen, not her, not my sister…"

"Here, my lady, drink," the handmaid told Eirian softly and tearfully.

Eirian swallowed dutifully once, but pushed the cup away.

"Eirian," Arthur said, sitting on one knee in front of her. "We will find her. You mustn't worry."

"He will use her to get to me," she said. "To get to the throne."

She was right, Tristan thought. That was exactly what Arwel would do.

"Eirian!" Rhodri called, as he strode into the atrium. "What's going on? They told me something's wrong with Tegwen."

Arthur moved away from her when she stood. "He took her," she said. "Arwel took Tegwen."

"What?" the commander sputtered.

"I can't lose her, Rhodri," Eirian said shakily. "I can't."

Rhodri started to reach out for her, but seemed to realize who else was present and dropped his arm again. "You won't," he simply said.

"We have to find her."

"We will," he asserted and called for his second-in-command. "We will send out search parties immediately. Can I ask for your help, sirs?" he asked the knights.

"Of course," Gawain answered. "Tristan?"

"Dinadan and Griflet will go together and I will take Tor with me," Tristan replied. "I would pair the rest of you with someone from Caer Brannum. You don't know the land well enough."

"That's a sound suggestion," Rhodri answered. He paused for a moment and then added solemnly, "Thank you, sir."

Eirian looked at them, worry etching her young face and tears filling her blue eyes. "Please find her. She's all I have left."


	7. Young Heiresses

**A/N:** Thanks, everybody, for reviewing. I really appreciate your thoughts on the characters and the story!

I've changed the rating to M, because I think there is a description of violence and a conversation that, though brief, are a bit too graphic for T, in my opinion.

* * *

**Young Heiresses**

Tristan was saddling his horse, while a servant from Caer Brannum filled his saddle bags with food, hiding his yawns every so often. The boy had obviously been plucked straight from his bed to see to the knights, and Tristan thought he probably owed his provisions to the efficiency of Heledd, the cook. Eirian had been so absent-minded that he doubted she'd thought of anything this mundane.

He took Fedir and walked to the courtyard, where she was waiting with the king and queen. Rhodri was standing slightly behind her, a hand wrapped firmly around her elbow to steady her.

Tristan bit back a growl at the sight of it. If it hadn't been obvious before, it was so now after the way they had acted around each other this night. No commander was this familiar with his lady. Gods, he was sick of all this. He had half a mind to tell the woman to go to hell with all her lies, but her sister did not deserve this. No, his mind added darkly, she was much better off in a marriage that Eirian would no doubt arrange with her own best interests in mind. Unmarried, the girl was too much of a threat to the older sister's position.

Even married, she could still be a risk. There would always be claims through marriage to Tegwen. Eirian would marry the girl to a man who could be soothed by gold, rather than a lordship. Aye, Tegwen's dowry would make someone a very rich man, all for the sake of Eirian's hold on her father's lands.

It was ridiculous. Tristan had not stayed in Britannia to deal with this kind of nonsense. He had stayed to help keep the peace in the kingdom Arthur had created. His brothers had bled for it, he had bled for it, and this girl was willing to endanger it, all for her own lust of power.

Her father should have put her in a nunnery. Tristan had not converted to Christianity, but in his opinion the religion did have its perks. Let Eirian act out her little political games behind stone walls. Good riddance.

The knights gathered in the courtyard with several of Caer Brannum's scouts. Tristan watched their faces closely – these were the men that had eluded him on his journey here. It did not help his mood in any way. Tor appeared next to him, blond hair tied back and green eyes only half-awake.

"Wake up," he snapped at the young man. "You're no use to me with your eyes closed."

"Sorry, sir," Tor apologised, jumping nearly a foot in the air.

Eirian said some trembling words to the men, but Tristan ignored them and mounted Fedir, impatient to leave. He fell into the back of the line with Tor as they cantered through the gates and into the town.

Tristan twisted in the saddle to look back, only to see Eirian clasping a hand over her mouth and turning to Rhodri, who wrapped his arms around her, one hand protectively around the back of her head. The young commander locked eyes with him, but instead of letting Eirian go, he sent a savage look to Tristan and led her back into the villa.

* * *

The search party split up outside the town, taking off in different directions. Tristan kept up the pace. Tor, realising what was good for him, took pains not to fall behind. They were heading east, towards the mountains that separated the Britons from the Saxons.

Rhodri had told them that three horses were missing from the stables, one for Arwel and two for the guards who had fled with him. Which meant that Tegwen was riding along with one of them. One horse was carrying extra weight, which was an advantage to the pursuers.

Tor and Tristan meticulously checked every spot where a trail led away from the main road, but it seemed that if Arwel had headed this way, he'd chosen for speed instead of cover and stayed on the road.

If they continued to follow this road, Tristan knew, they would come upon a crossing, one way bending north towards some of Eirian's vassals and eventually Arthur's own lands, one way south heading into the Saxon kingdom of Bercia. The only way further east was through a small path, nothing more than a goat trail, through the mountains, on the other side of which lay more Saxon lands and the eastern shore of the island.

Tristan thought it highly unlikely that Arwel would risk contacting one of Eirian's vassals when he had abducted her sister. He would either seek shelter with one of Arthur's more ambitious allies, or he would defect to the Saxons altogether.

Bercia's king would rather appreciate the possibility of incorporating Caer Brannum into his own dynasty through Tegwen, whereas Arthur's allies might still have some reserves about doing so. At least, for as long as Arthur's stand on the whole matter was undecided.

"Sir?" Tor asked. "Do you think Arwel would have taken a main road?"

"Depends on what he wants to achieve," Tristan answered. "Get as far away as soon is possible, or disappear. We are not acquainted with the land here well enough to know all the paths and hiding spots, so the lady's men are searching the land. We take the roads."

"What do you think he'll do, sir?"

Gods, Tor had obviously woken up during their ride.

"It matters naught. He might hide for a few days, but he'll have to leave Caer Brannum's lands eventually. He needs allies. Even if he takes Tegwen for a wife, he'll have to fight for his claim through her."

"Tegwen? You've met the young lady, sir?"

"A few times."

"Do you think she could be turned against her sister?"

Tristan looked at his pupil. "I doubt she'll have a say in the matter."

"It's a right bloody mess here, isn't it?"

Personally, Tristan thought that the bloody part of the mess had yet to come, but he nodded anyway. "Keep your eye on the road."

Arwel's party was two hours ahead of them at the most, and they had one horse with two riders, which slowed them down. Early as it as, the sun was already peeking out from between the mountains in front of them, and it meant that they would be able to search any tracks much faster than before.

When they reached the crossing, Tristan decided to go south to Bercia, since the freshest tracks he suspected were Arwel's went that way. The tension that came with entering enemy territory wrapped around him like a second skin.

"How far until we are in Saxon land?" asked Tor quietly.

"Three hours, at this pace. We'll gain on them once we're able to go faster."

The young man nodded silently. With approval Tristan noticed Tor's increased alertness as they neared the border.

Tor leant over to have a closer look at the ground.

"See anything?" asked Tristan.

"I'm not sure, sir. There are footprints here and it looks like someone fell."

They both dismounted to examine the tracks, but the footprints didn't lead anywhere.

"Looks like a struggle," Tristan noted. He pointed at the hoof prints continuing down the road. "Seems they got back on the horses, though."

"We're heading in the right direction, aren't we, sir?"

"Aye."

* * *

Tristan snapped his fingers and pointed at the bend in the road. They had dismounted earlier, at the edge of the woods, and they were leading their horses by the reins.

Tor tapped his ear, indicating he had heard the voices too. After they had bound the horses loosely to a branch, they advanced quietly. It was not the Saxon language that they could hear, it was the Briton dialect of this area.

Tor looked at Tristan excitedly. The commander nodded back. They'd probably found them.

They crept towards the turn in the road, around which, they could now see, was a small clearing a little way off the road. They could see the still figures of horses in the twilight, but no more was visible. The horses' riders had not made a fire.

Tristan motioned at Tor to follow him closer to the clearing. Silently, Tristan pulled a knife from his belt, and after a moment Tor did the same. Tristan placed a hand on his apprentice's shoulder. "We need at least one for questioning," he said quietly.

Tor nodded.

In silence they crossed the road, keeping as low as possible. Tristan held up his hand and Tor stopped moving. They were on the edge of the clearing. Tristan could see Tegwen sitting next to a guard. She seemed to be in relatively good health, though her head hung forward and she was hugging her knees. At least she was sitting up on her own , Tristan judged, which meant no serious injuries. Everything else could be determined later.

The second guard was sitting opposite of the other one, while Arwel was standing a little further away, near the horses. Tristan considered aiming to kill, but the horses were blocking his sight. Tristan sighed and stood up, taking the only option they had.

He stepped into the clearing. The guards jumped up in complete surprise. Tristan smiled. At least he wasn't losing his touch yet. "Let's take the girl back now, shall we?" he said to Arwel.

Arwel's hand moved to the hilt of his sword.

"Don't," advised Tristan. Tor came to stand next to him.

Judging from the rapidly changing expressions on his face, Arwel was considering his possibilities.

"Be reasonable," said Tristan. "It's over."

Arwel glared at him and scoffed. "Kill her!" he shouted.

One of the guards grabbed Tegwen's hair and yanked her head back. Tristan swore and used the instant the guard needed to get a good grip on his knife to jump at him, knocking the man off his feet. Tegwen cried out in pain, a lock of hair ripped from her head, but Tristan dragged the guard away from her and she scrambled out of their reach on hands and knees.

The second guard had engaged Tor, leaving Arwel free to mount his horse and take off into the night. "No!" shouted the young knight. "He's escaping!"

Tristan grunted, but could not do anything with his opponent still at him. Tor punched the other guard squarely in the face, sending him sprawling, and ran out of the clearing to get his horse.

"Tor!" Tristan barked, but the young knight did not listen and headed after Arwel.

Tristan's opponent clawed at his throat, and the knight was forced to turn his attention to finishing the fight. He pulled a knife from his boot and thrust it upwards into the guard's stomach, finishing it an instant later by slitting the man's throat.

Tristan wiped his knife on the guard's clothes and turned around in search of Tegwen. She was sitting in the grass, her eyes and mouth wide open in horror. Tristan reckoned she wouldn't go anywhere on her own and stalked over to the guard that Tor had apparently knocked unconscious.

He fetched a rope from the guard's saddle and bound him with it, heaving the man onto his horse, tying him securely to keep him from falling off. Once they got back to Caer Brannum, they could extract valuable information from him, not in the least Arwel's destination.

Tristan sheathed his knife back into his boot and wiped his hands on his trousers to get rid of some of the blood, before he went over to Tegwen. She scrambled away from him, whimpering.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he told her.

She said nothing, but merely stared at him.

Reigning in his impatience, he said calmly, "We should get back to Caer Brannum. It's not safe here."

"No," whispered Tegwen. "I can't go back."

"Come on, girl," Tristan pressed. "We're on Saxon land. I do not have time for this."

"All I wanted was to ask him if it was true," said Tegwen tearfully. "And he said it was. And I went with him – I went…"

"Did he harm you?" asked Tristan gruffly.

She blinked and looked pleadingly at him. Gods, Tristan thought, her eyes were exactly like her sister's, dark blue and slightly almond-shaped. Only Tegwen's eyes were without the wariness and slyness that veiled Eirian's.

He looked for something else in Tegwen's eyes, but could not find it. He relaxed a little. Arwel did not seem to have gone very far with his plan. Tristan could be wrong, of course, but it was not his place to ask more personal questions.

"Tegwen," he said more gently. "We must go now."

Tegwen shook her head. "She'll never have me back. She'll never forgive me. I believed Arwel, even after he took me away. I thought he would keep me safe. But then we crossed the border to Bercia, and I knew… I knew then… I tried to get away, but they put me back on the horse. I was such a fool. Eirian will never want to see me again."

Tristan had no comforting answer. He had no idea what Eirian would do. He extended a hand to Tegwen, ignoring the blood still sticking to it. "She may. She may not. But sitting here on the ground won't change any of that. Neither will running away. Get up, Tegwen. We're going back."

Silently, Tegwen wiped the tears from her eyes and grabbed his hand, letting herself be pulled to her feet. For a moment, she looked at the blood that had rubbed off on her fingers, before she lifted her face to meet his eyes. "I understand."

With something akin to regret, Tristan witnessed the change in her. He knew he would not be bringing a child back to Caer Brannum.

* * *

They arrived back at Caer Brannum just before sunrise. Tristan quickly led the horses through the town, wanting to reach the villa as soon as possible. They halted in front of the entrance. While Tristan helped an exhausted Tegwen down from her horse, Eirian stormed down the steps in a whirlwind of black and blue silk. She pushed past the knight and embraced her sister to tightly that the girl staggered backwards.

" Eirian…" Tegwen choked.

Eirian grabbed her sister by her shoulders and shook her. "You idiot girl!" she shouted. "What the hell were you thinking?"

Tegwen began to sob.

"Oh God, I was so worried about you," moaned Eirian and pulled Tegwen into another hug. Tegwen's small fists grabbed the back of Eirian's dress when her sister continued, "What am I supposed to do without you, you daft child? You're all I have. If you ever do anything like that again, I swear to God I will lock you up until your hair and teeth fall out."

"I'm sorry, Eirian, I'm so sorry," cried Tegwen.

"I'm sorry too," said Eirian. "You must believe me. I didn't harm Ifan and there is nothing but friendship between Rhodri and me."

"I know," nodded Tegwen. "When I realised we were going south to Bercia, I knew he'd been lying to me. It was very foolish of me. I never should have believed him. But I just wanted to know what was going on."

Eirian looked pained. "This is all my fault. I have abandoned you since Father died. I didn't want to worry you."

Tristan's eyebrow shot up. Eirian was admitting a mistake?

"I'm not a child anymore, Eirian," Tegwen protested weakly.

"I know that," the elder sister replied. "But you are my little sister and my only family. I have to keep you safe."

"Telling me nothing is not protecting me," Tegwen answered. " I am still your heir, am I not? I should know what's going on."

Tristan smiled wryly. Adulthood in Caer Brannum seemed to go hand in hand with claiming hereditary positions.

Eirian caressed her sister's fair hair. "You are. Come, we must talk, but not outside."

"Wait." Tegwen stepped out of her sister's arms and curtsied for Tristan. "Thank you, sir."

He inclined his head politely at the girl.

Her sister placed a hand on her shoulder and looked him straight in the eye. "Thank you," she said softly. "Thank you, Tristan."

Tristan nodded uncomfortably. "I brought back one of the guards for questioning," he replied. He nodded at the man, who was still unconscious from the second time he'd received a knock to the head, from an irritated Tristan who'd had enough of his struggling. "The other one is dead. Arwel escaped into Bercia, but one of my scouts went after him. I will follow their tracks."

Eirian gestured at a soldier to take the captured guard from the horse and sent a messenger to Rhodri. "I will have my kitchen staff supply you with food."

"You're not going alone, are you, sir Tristan?" frowned Tegwen. "Not to Bercia?"

"None of the other search parties have returned yet," said Eirian. "Do you require a company of my men?"

"I will ask Lancelot to come with me," he answered.

"You're going into Saxon territory with only two men?" replied Eirian, after a slight hesitation.

"We'll be quicker that way and less likely to be seen by Saxons."

"We were already in Bercia when they found me," Tegwen told Eirian.

Instantly, Eirian's brain started going over the implications, Tristan could tell. "Bercia," she mumbled. "Yes, I suppose you are right, sir. It is better to remain hidden. Now is not the time to provoke our Saxon neighbours." She rubbed Tegwen's arms. "Come on, let's get you inside."

* * *

An hour later Tristan was on horse again, accompanied by Lancelot. And seven hours later they found Tor's body, a large, ragged abdominal wound clear evidence of the cause of his death.

As he waved his hand to chase off the flies that had already gathered on the young scout's body, Tristan remembered Tor's words. "It's a right bloody mess here, isn't it?" It had indeed become just that, Tristan thought angrily.

Lancelot and he bound Tor's wound so that he could be brought back to Caer Brannum on horseback.

With Tor's heavy, lifeless body lying across his thighs as they rode back, Tristan could not help but think about the consequences. Tor had been a promising scout and a good warrior, his youth making him a bit rash, but Tristan had had faith that he would have become more level-headed in a few years. Arwel had taken that away, and for what?

Tristan would retaliate. His mind was already set. Aside from the fact that Tor had been in the high king's service, he had been one of Tristan's men. He'd lost one of his men to that absurd struggle between Arwel and Eirian. It was not acceptable. He realised he was making this personal, but he had absolutely no intention of changing that. As far as he was concerned, this _was_ personal.

"Arthur will want satisfaction for his death," said Lancelot. His jaw was tense and he was brooding even more than Tristan. Of course, the advisor had larger consequences to try and oversee.

"Arwel is a dead man," said Tristan, so calmly that Lancelot looked disturbed.

And he was really going to have to put a lot of effort into not assigning Eirian the same fate.

After their return to Caer Brannum, Tristan insisted on taking Tor back to Camelot and his family himself. He had to deal with a distraught Tegwen, who was blaming herself for the young scout's death, and he had to deal with his own temper, when he saw Eirian standing over Tor's body with an utterly blank face.

Griflet, the other young scout and a friend of Tor's, wanted to come with as well, and together they left Eirian's lands, heading north to Camelot.

It turned into one the most unpleasant weeks Tristan had had in quite some time. Because of the summer heat, he returned Tor's body in a state that made hardened men swallow with difficulty, let alone his young and heavily pregnant wife.

Judging from her reaction, the two had married out of love. She went into a screaming fit of grief, finally passed out from exhaustion, and when she woke up again, her labour started, postponing the burial for which Tristan was staying. It took her a full day and night to give birth, and screaming women had never been Tristan's forte. Leaving, unfortunately, had not been an option.

Aggravated within an inch of his self-control, he returned to Caer Brannum with Griflet ten days after they'd left, riding all the way in such ominous silence that Griflet all but turned into a nervous wreck.

The young scout sighed in relief when Caer Brannum finally came into view, but his eyes widened when he saw his commander's expression. Tristan's anger had been building steadily for a fortnight and he knew just the person to take it out on.

He tossed his reins to Griflet the moment he dismounted, ignoring his apprentice's anxious "Sir?" and strode into the villa. He grabbed the first servant he saw by the arm, growling out, "Your mistress?"

"Her rooms, sir," the man squeaked, blinking after the scout with a slack jaw as he stalked away.

Tristan didn't bother knocking, but walked in and slammed the door shut behind him. From her sofa beneath the window, Eirian stared in shock at him. The handmaids in the room all whirled towards her, unsure of their lady's response.

Tristan saw her throat move when she swallowed. "Sir Tristan," she then said. "What an unexpected visit." The sharp edge in her voice spurred him even more.

"Leave," he barked at the maids.

"I beg your pardon?" said Eirian indignantly.

"I lost one of my men because of your scheming," he snapped. "Is that something you want to discuss in front of them?"

She paled, her eyes shooting from him to her servants. "Go," she told them softly.

"My lady?"

"Go," repeated Tristan, his glare so fierce that two of them stepped backwards. The room was empty within a moment, but it seemed to spark Eirian's anger.

She stood up from the sofa. "If you think that you can order my p – "

"Be quiet," he growled at her. "I do not give a damn about your people, your status, or your problems."

"That's nothing new to me," she bit back. "And it is certainly nothing of interest to me. You've come here to pick a fight – that's the only reason you're here."

Tristan fixed her with an ice cold stare. "I am here to tell you that I informed Tor's wife that her husband and the father of her unborn child was killed as a result of an unnecessary quarrel between you and Arwel over who can sit their pompous arse on a throne they think they both deserve."

She did not even blink at his inappropriate language. "I did not kill Tor," she said calmly, adding mercilessly, "and I doubt this is the first time you've had to take the body of one of your men home. What on earth makes you barge into my chambers like this?"

"You don't think the needless murder of one of my men enough?" he retorted.

She scoffed. "Needless? Tell me, when is a murder ever need_ful_?"

Tristan sneered. "You tell me."

She paused, shaking her head bitterly. "I think I have tolerated just about enough from you. Leave."

"No," said Tristan. "You will take responsibility for this. You will be aware of the consequences of your actions."

"Ah," she said derisively. "That is what it comes down to. Your vendetta against me again. All of this is my fault, I have disrupted your peaceful elderly days with my wish to keep my father's lands safe from greedy hands, I should have just given over Caer Brannum to Arwel, because it is more _convenient_ for you."

Elderly days? Tristan thought irritably. Perhaps. But he'd be damned if he let a mere girl, who'd seen nothing more of the world than the adoring, sycophantic faces of her servants, speak to him like that.

"And speaking of Arwel," she continued angrily. "What about him? I have not seen you treating him the way you treat me, while he was still here. Which he isn't anymore, because he abducted my sister!"

She shouted the last words at him.

"You're behaving like a child," he told her off maliciously. "Arwel is to blame as well, but it does not mitigate your share. Pointing an accusing finger at someone else won't clear you of guilt."

He tilted his head. "Did I tell you that Tor's wife had to take my word for it, that it was her husband I was bringing back home? He was so swollen and discoloured he was unrecognisable. And the smell… Have you ever smelt a corpse after a week? Especially one whose guts have been ripped apart?"

Eirian gaped at him, horror and disbelief evident, before she forced her features back into cool composition. "No, but I have seen my late husband's head loll about in ways it shouldn't after he'd broken his neck. Does that count for anything with you?"

He had to hand it to her, she did not back down easily. "Not much," he replied just as coolly. "Seeing as you caused the state of his neck."

But _that_ seemed to have been just the right remark. Eirian bared her teeth, marched over to him, and hissed in his face, "I did not kill Ifan. I don't know who did! And you think I don't feel guilty over Tor's death? He saved my sister's life! He died because_ I_ did not guard Arwel well enough. And you think I don't care? Good God, Tristan, what kind of monster do you think I am?"

"The kind that would use anything for her own benefit," he retorted icily. "Spare me the act, woman."

This time he was prepared for her. He grabbed her wrist before her hand connected with his face and tightened his grip when she tried to break loose. "Once, Eirian," he threatened. "I let you do that once. The next time I will hit back."

She froze, standing suddenly very still as she looked at him. Tristan could see a million different things going on in her head, making him curious as to what would come out on top. Slowly, an arrogant sneer formed on her face.

"Do that, Tristan," she drawled. "Do that, and you will find out just how well I can act. You might be a callous, violent brute, but I doubt your king is the same. What would he think when his royal knight abused a poor, defenceless, weak woman who is half his size? Hit me, and I will show Arthur the marks, weeping miserably as I do it." She smirked. "My skin bruises spectacularly, you know. It will really add lustre to my act."

She stared pointedly at her wrist, but Tristan kept his fingers locked around it, though he wanted nothing more than to shove the little snake away from him. But she would not win this battle so easily. "Admitting that you're weak and defenceless?" he countered. "I think not."

"Well," she replied. "If it benefits me, why not? Didn't you just say so yourself?"

"I might have overlooked an exception," said Tristan, pulling her closer by her wrist. He smirked back at her, leaning over so close their noses were nearly touching. She did not avert her face, lifting her chin in defiance instead. Tristan's smirk widened. "After all, you convinced Guinevere with the help of my appalling behaviour, but you never told anyone you let me open your robe."

She shot backwards, jerking her wrist out of his grasp. He let her, enjoying his triumph. Trembling with rage, she stood in front of him. "Get out!" she snarled. "Get out, you disgusting excuse of a man!"

He mocked her with an impeccable bow. "My lady."

"Get out!"

Tristan sent her a last, knowing glance over his shoulder as he sauntered out of her rooms.


	8. Anticipating Actions

**A/N: Thanks for all your reviews. Orangeturquoise, I hope everything went well on exam doomsday! And Caranaraf, thanks for sharing your suspicions. Everyone is a suspect! **

**Finally we'll get to see a bit from Eirian's perspective in this chapter. **

* * *

**Anticipating Actions**

Eirian stood in the middle of her room, breathing heavily through her nose in her outrage. She clenched her teeth in a futile effort not to express her anger vocally. Aside from Arwel, she didn't think she had despised anyone as much as that bloody knight in her life.

She sent a loud, disgusted growl into her room, but it didn't help. "Bastard," she muttered, and turned around to look out the window. She placed her hands on the sill, squeezing hard, but she was still seething.

What on earth did that man have against her? Oh, of course, he thought she'd killed her husband and committed adultery with Rhodri. But, good Lord, he wasn't the only one who thought that. None of her other royal guests were behaving like that. She highly doubted it were Tristan's morals which were judging her so harshly. After all, his was the only name people whispered in fear rather than reverence. There was many a tale about the things he'd done.

Eirian moved her wrist with a pained face. This was the second time he'd bruised her. The fingerprints on her elbow had only just faded. He hadn't hit her, but she considered going to Arthur anyway. After a long moment, she spat out a coarse word she'd picked up from Rhodri. What kind of impression would she be giving, if she revealed that she could not hold her own against a knight?

Granted, this particular knight was a bit more difficult to handle than most people, but still. Eirian's frustration flared up again. Tristan had been right. She would never admit that she had been weaker than someone else. He was taking advantage of that knowledge.

Her main problem was that she didn't know how to handle him. The animosity was something she was familiar with, but the way he suddenly came so close to her that it was uncomfortable was unsettling to her. The thing she resented him perhaps most for was _that_ he unsettled her. It was hard not to let the stories she'd heard get to her. They made her extremely wary of him, perhaps even sca – No, she thought firmly. Fear was for children. She was acting like a child. And it was her own fault for listening to the servants' gossip in the first place.

She was a reigning lady. She owned the wealthiest lands in the kingdom. They had some of the best natural defences in this part of the island. She had enough men under her command to hold off a Saxon attack. She had the upper hand.

Eirian let out another frustrated groan. But she did not have enough men to fight off both the Saxons and her greedy allies. "It's mine," she hissed. "And it'll be Tegwen's after me."

Though she wouldn't even have her sister if it hadn't been for Tristan. She didn't understand why he'd bothered. It would have suited his purposes perfectly if Arwel had married Tegwen. It would only have been a matter of time before Arwel had managed to sit his _pompous arse_ on her throne.

Eirian wouldn't have gone down without a fight, though. She glared fiercely at the idea. And wasn't that what Tristan claimed he wanted to avoid? A war? He wanted to keep the peace in the kingdom.

She snorted loudly. She didn't believe a word of it. That man loved the taste of blood too much for his own good. He just didn't want to go to war for her. It piqued her. He cared nothing for the justness of her cause. She wasn't important, she was just a nuisance who should have stepped aside for Arwel. It didn't matter to Tristan that her father had educated her, prepared her, taught her everything he knew about his lands.

It was why she couldn't keep her mouth diplomatically shut in his presence, no matter how wary of him she was. Her resentment over his remarks overrode her good sense and before she knew it her mouth was faster than her prudence. Tristan didn't seem to respond well to it.

It was a character flaw of hers that Ifan had hated, Eirian remembered with a sigh. He'd hated that she loved having discussions as well. Despite the fact that he'd had no interest in the daily rule of the lands he would inherit through her, he had also hated it that she sat next to her father, learning from his decisions.

Eirian bit her bottom lip. For obvious reasons she usually avoided thinking about her husband. Ifan hadn't liked much about her. He'd been eighteen when he'd arrived at Caer Brannum, an excellent fighter and horseman, and his fourteen-year-old bride had not nearly been as interesting as exploring the hills and valleys that would in time be his. Ifan had made friends easily with the other young men his age, Rhodri among them.

She had hardly seen Ifan during the day. And the nights – the few nights he'd spent in her room, at least… well, her nurse had told her about that, in absence of her mother. Her nurse had been kind, and had soothed her horrified charge by explaining how pleasant it would be. Ifan had been a handsome young man and Eirian had been curious.

She had not found it pleasant at all. She had liked him kissing her, but he had only done it for a moment, before putting her on the bed and pulling up her beautiful, new shift, which had been made especially for her wedding. It had hurt and she had been so disgusted by the sticky feel of her thighs that she hadn't slept at all. The next morning her maids had cooed over the stained sheets, so Eirian had decided everything must have happened as it should, and quickly resigned herself to the fact that she simply did not enjoy it.

At first, she had been hurt by Ifan's lack of interest, and had tried to reach out of him, but she had learned fast, and she had other things on her mind anyway. Rhodri, however, had accidentally witnessed some of Ifan's more brusque rejections, and had taken offence to it.

She had known Rhodri since she was very little. His father had been a trustee of her father's, back in the Roman days, and after Rhodri's parents had died, Meirion had taken the boy in, raising him in his household.

Rhodri had loved teasing her, and she had loved pouring honey in his boots and hiding his things. He'd considered himself infinitely more wiser than her, being four years older than her, but he'd grown out of that eventually. He could never resist needling her to get her into an argument, and had not stopped doing it after her marriage. Eirian liked to think she had helped train Rhodri's reflexes with all the items she had thrown at his head. She had grown up with him as her friend.

The friendship between him and Ifan had slowly soured as Rhodri refused to keep his mouth shut about the way Ifan was treating Eirian. She herself had put a stop to it by not trying to gain some attention from Ifan anymore. He'd barely looked at her after that, and Eirian had discovered she did not mind in the least.

After a stern talking to Rhodri that it was none of his business, he held his tongue, though he'd been angry with her for weeks. It had taken a while for their friendship to return to normal.

Eirian smiled wistfully. She'd only been sixteen then. Things had changed considerably between then and now.

And now Ifan was dead. She had not cried once after his death. She wondered if that made her a horrible person. "No, it doesn't," she whispered. Ifan had neglected her and she had cared nothing for him.

Though Tristan seemed to think she was a horrible person. Her temper got the best of her again. How dare he judge her? Him, of all people? How dare he speak to her the way he did? She was protected by her status. Even if he did not agree with her, he should at least respect that. How dare he touch her? The liberties he allowed himself were unacceptable! First the night in the garden, tugging away her robe, then the incident in her bathing room.

Her cheeks flamed. And now, coming into her rooms to _remind_ her of it… What, in God's name, did he want from her?

"My lady?"

"What?" she snapped, whirling around.

Bethyn, her handmaid, looked hurt. "Forgive me, my lady. I wanted to ask if you were all right? We could hear shouting."

"No, Bethyn," said Eirian tiredly. "Don't apologise. We had a bit of a heated discussion. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have snapped at you."

"Would you like me to prepare a bath for you?"

Immediately, Eirian's face flushed again. "No! Thank you, I'm fine. I'll be staying in my chambers for a while."

"As you wish, my lady." Bethyn closed the door softly behind her.

Still too agitated to sit down, Eirian turned back to the window, letting the soft breeze cool her heated face. Bethyn's mentioning of a bath made it impossible not to think of Tristan barging into the bathing room a few weeks ago. She couldn't deny that she had been deliberately rude to him, making him wait outside while she took her time finishing her bath. Honestly, though, what had he expected after threatening to drag her out of the water himself? Had he thought she would come running? Well, whatever he had expected, s_he_ had certainly not expected him to follow through with his words.

Eirian coughed uncomfortably and shifted her weight from one hip to the other. Thankfully she'd had the good sense to get out of the bath beforehand, because the situation had been inappropriate enough without her being exposed. Although her robe hadn't exactly been much of a barrier.

His hand… it had been on her back in a completely indecent manner. She cleared her throat again. He'd been cross with her that night too. It seemed he liked to overstep boundaries whenever he was angry. Eirian shook her head. And she was foolish enough to push back.

On the other hand, how could she not push back? The things he said to her... She cringed as she thought of Tor, the young scout. She hadn't lied to Tristan when she'd said she felt guilty over his death. She had thought she had become used to death after seeing Ifan and her parents, but the sight of Tor's cut up body, dead as a result of her actions, had been made her want to vomit. It had taken her everything she had not to let it show while she had stood over the young man's body. He'd been her age.

Her mind told her it was part of being a ruler, that Tor's was only the first of many bodies she would be paying her respects to, after having sent them to their death herself with her orders. Her mind was rational about it, but the rest of her objected violently to it.

She gave a bitter laugh. Tristan's attempt to make her take the blame had been pointless. It was already weighing her down. And he had rubbed salt into the unexpected wound by telling her of Tor's wife and unborn child.

Bile rose in the back of her throat. Eirian swallowed with difficulty. She had wanted to scream at Tristan, to order him to stop talking, though an unforgiving part of her insisted that she ought to know what damage she had caused.

Did Tor's wife have family that would protect her now that her husband was gone? How would she provide for her child?

Glad to be in the seclusion of her chambers, Eirian let the tidal wave of feelings come over her, allowing herself to wallow in her regret, fear, and anger for a moment, knowing she would have to keep it under control in public. She could not display her doubts to others if she wanted to be Caer Brannum's leader.

Slowly, the trembling of her hands stopped and after breathing deeply she went to her table, where lists and letters were waiting for her as always. They would occupy her mind. She idly fingered a piece of parchment, deliberating whether to send for Rhodri to distract her, but decided against it, as the pile on her table would only continue to grow. It would also be selfish of her to keep Rhodri away from his work.

With a sigh she set herself down at the table and reached for a quill.

* * *

After his visit to Eirian, Tristan had met with Arthur to inform him about the state of things in Camelot, had scrubbed off the dirt from his journey, and made a trip to Heledd's domain, where he'd got his hands on warm bread filled with smoked ham, two slices of apple cake, and a bunch of grapes.

Very much satisfied with the results of his visit to the kitchens, he walked through the corridors towards the _peristyle, _to enjoy his meal in the garden_. _He sat on a bench in the shadows, stretching his legs in front of him and crossing them at the ankles. He was just finishing the first of his two slices of cake when Tegwen sat down next to him.

"Hello," she said quietly.

"Tegwen," he nodded.

When she remained silent, he glanced at her. She was staring at her lap, her hands fidgeting.

"What is it?" he asked.

She spoke so softly he had to request she repeat herself.

"Will you tell me about the burial?"

He stared at her. "What?"

Tegwen took a deep breath. "Will you tell me – "

"I heard you," Tristan interrupted her. "Why do you want to know about it?"

Her head sank further forward. "Because I think I should know. I caused all of this, didn't I?"

So much for a quiet meal. Tristan didn't know what the bloody hell he could tell her. There weren't many details about Tor's burial that he thought were going to help her cope. Because that was what she was obviously looking for. He thought of the things he'd told Eirian and shifted on the bench. All of that was clearly out of the question.

"We brought him to his family's home," he then said. "They live a few miles west of Camelot. He lies between family members."

"Do they know what happened?" she asked.

"Aye, I told them," he answered.

"Did you tell them that I pray for him?"

"Aye," said Tristan. "Listen, Tegwen. I know that you are not used to this, but these things happen. All the time, in fact."

She looked up at him, a sharpness in her face that made her look uncannily like her sister, despite her fair hair. "That's not what you told Eirian."

"What?"

"You were fighting with her," she explained. "I heard the servants talk about it."

The look on her face was much too serious for someone her age. "I know you don't like my sister, but it is not her fault that Tor died. It is my fault. I'm the one who went to Arwel, I'm the one who went with him, I'm the one who had to be brought back, I'm the one who had to be saved from the guard, leaving Arwel free to escape and kill Tor."

"Tegwen..."

"You shouldn't have blamed Eirian," she said emphatically.

Tristan should have known that picking a fight with Eirian would somehow come back to bite him in the arse. All his dealings with the woman seemed to turn out that way. Now he was called on his behaviour by a thirteen-year-old girl.

"Do you often eavesdrop on the servants?" he retorted.

Her ears turned pink. "Yes," she admitted. She offered no explanation or excuse, which amused Tristan greatly. "That doesn't change what you said to Eirian, though," she continued sternly.

"I think your sister can fend for herself, Tegwen," replied Tristan dryly.

"I just don't understand why you must be so cruel to her," she said.

"If your sister wants to rule part of the kingdom," he said, "she should be able to handle the truth, even if it makes her uncomfortable."

"But that is my point," cried Tegwen. "You weren't telling the truth. _She_ didn't cause Tor's death, I did."

Tristan sighed. Well, truth it was then. "No, you didn't. You were foolish and naïve and headstrong. You were so convinced that you knew what was going on that you didn't stop to think. Arwel took advantage of that. You're not to blame for misinterpreting his intentions. Arwel and Eirian are responsible for the current situation, not you."

He quickly checked her face. No tears, so far so good.

He continued, "I assume you've learned something from this, which will make you think twice when something like this happens again. Because it will. And next time you will be accountable for your actions."

She was staring at him wide-eyed, cheeks glowing red from the chastising. "No one has ever spoken to me that way."

"Maybe they should," he replied. "I heard you tell Eirian that you were her heir, and that you wanted her to keep you informed. If you meant that, you should start thinking before you act. Don't behave like a child if you don't want to be treated as one."

"You're right," she said softly. "I have been acting like a child. I suppose I have to choose what I want. Being a child or an heiress."

Tristan was somewhat impressed. He'd expected indignation, pouting perhaps, but not this calmness.

Tegwen stood up. "I have to go to Eirian for my lessons. Thank you, Tristan, for speaking with me."

"You're welcome."

At the entrance to the atrium she turned back, raising her chin in a very familiar, haughty gesture as she spoke to him. "Maybe you should heed your own advice, though."

"What's that?" he asked.

"Don't act like a brute, because people will think you are one."

Tristan couldn't help the grin forming on his face in response to her cheeky remark. "One difference, Tegwen. People are right."

She snorted, her attempt at superiority dissolving into mischief. "So you and my sister do agree on something after all."

His grin shifted into a smirk. "I'm sure that is an excellent base for improving our acquaintance."

The bone-dry tone of his voice made her laugh. She turned and darted off to Eirian's chambers.

* * *

Eirian was pleased with her sister's lessons. She did not see to her sister's education personally – she employed a tutor for that – but she liked to keep a close eye on Tegwen's progress.

Tegwen had retreated to the small, private garden at the back of the villa, which was accessible only through Eirian's chambers and which was surrounded by walls on three sides. Her sister had taken a slate and a stylus with her to practice her Greek in the secluded, shaded place, when Eirian's majordomus had come in with his lists of expenses and supplies. Having a good portion of the royal court over for an extended stay cut deeply into Caer Brannum's funds and it made the majordomus nervous.

"We will begin harvesting in less than a fortnight," she said, poring over the lists. "We can restock then, Laurus."

Laurus looked unhappy.

Eirian smiled. "We'll just have to make do. I cannot tell the King to go find his food elsewhere, can I?"

"No, my lady," replied Laurus. He collected his papers with a martyred sigh and left to oversee the household again.

Eirian remained seated at her table. This year she would put a larger part of the harvest in stock than usual. There would be less to trade, and their profits would suffer because of it, but with the unstable situation in the kingdom food was more important than gold.

Laurus would probably have a stroke when she told him.

When there was a knock on her door, she called the visitor in. She frowned at Ithel, her advisor. "I haven't forgotten an appointment, have I?"

The white-haired man shook his head. "Of course you haven't, my lady. When was the last time you forgot anything?"

"I can't remember," she replied teasingly.

"Well then," he smiled.

She told him to sit down and poured him a cup of watered wine. He accepted the cup from her and took a sip. "I'm here unannounced. I need to speak with you, Eirian, and you are probably not going to like it."

Worried, Eirian sat down as well. "Why? What news have you?"

"It is not anything new," he replied. "You already know."

Eirian gave him a stern look in response to his deliberate vagueness. "Are you going to have me guess?"

"Tempting as it is…" smiled Ithel. "No, I wanted to speak with you about your plans for the future. We haven't had much chance to discuss it. Ever since your father died, everything has moved so quickly. Arwel's betrayal, the King's arrival, Tegwen's abduction."

"Yes," said Eirian. "It feels as if I have only been reacting, instead of anticipating. I do not like it."

"Lord Meirion taught you well. But you must not sell yourself short. You have been looking ahead wherever you could. It was your idea to have Rhodri's scouts mingle with the villagers and woodsmen to have more eyes in the lands." Ithel leaned over to her with a fatherly smile. "They outsmarted even the great Tristan and his apprentices."

Eirian rolled her eyes. "I think that particular idea did not endear me to him."

Ithel shrugged a shoulder stooped with age. "You could have been a little less smug about it. And your tongue is quicker than your sense sometimes. That is something you should work on. You cannot afford to antagonize any more people."

"A praising and a chastising all at once," said Eirian, though she took the warning seriously. "Duly noted for the future. Now what of that future?"

"We have had to act swiftly the last few months," continued Ithel. "You have succeeded in minimising the damage Arwel has caused. What I want to discuss with you is your next move."

"I have not decided yet," replied Eirian, leaning back against her sofa.

"By gaining Guinevere's favour you have deflected Arwel's attack on you through the King, and she has convinced her husband of your cause."

That made Eirian feel a little smug again. Ithel's unyielding gaze cut right through it. "For as long as it lasts," he added pointedly. "You have too many enemies to rely on the King's influence alone. A King who still harbours doubts about Ifan's death."

Ithel put his cup down. "You need to stay one step ahead of your enemies. You need to anticipate their desires and their actions. What do they want, Eirian?"

"They want Caer Brannum," she muttered. "All of them."

"Yes," agreed Ithel. "And their desires predict their actions. They will obtain Caer Brannum by harming your people, your sister, or yourself."

"I must be faster than them, isn't that what you are saying?"

"It is," answered Ithel.

"You are saying that I should beat them to it, and choose a husband," Eirian said sharply. "Fill the vacuum that Ifan and my father left."

"I am."

"You are saying that I should give up Caer Brannum to a stranger," she continued, her voice rising.

"That is going to happen anyway," Ithel retorted sternly. "Your father's line ends with you or your sister. With your marriages or your deaths, a stranger will become lord of Caer Brannum."

Eirian flew out of her reclined position, on her feet in an instant. She turned to Ithel, her mouth already opened for a furious outburst, but the advisor cut her off. "That is the way it is, and anger will not change it. You can persist in your misplaced stubbornness and wait for war to come to Caer Brannum or for another abduction of Tegwen – or yourself – or you can start anticipating as your father taught you."

"Selling my father's lands is not what he taught me," she bit back.

"Your father taught you to protect your people, your lands, and your family!" Ithel thundered. "In that order."

With an angry growl Eirian turned her back to him.

"Think, Eirian," Ithel insisted. "You are still in control. Once they move against you, you will lose that. Choose a man from a powerful family, who will keep away the other wolves. But choose one whose interests lie not in the little, daily cares of a town and a people. Let him and his family's name act like a shield, while you rule your people through all those little cares he is not interested in. Start from there and then expand your influence. You have earned your people's loyalty. They will not forget you when there is a lord in Caer Brannum."

"A second Ifan," she said softly. "I am not sure I want that again."

"Are your wants more important than your people? Than your sister?"

Eirian closed her eyes, the image of Tegwen's frightened and exhausted face as Tristan had brought her back burnt into her mind. She turned and looked out the window.

Tegwen was still sitting there, her blond braid hanging over a shoulder. She was tapping her stylus against her bottom lip, her other hand playing with the end of the braid.

"No," whispered Eirian.

"Then you must act now."

She swallowed away the bitter taste in her mouth and straightened her shoulders, before she faced Ithel. "Bring the proposals to me," she ordered. "I will choose myself."


	9. Proposals

**A/N: Happy Easter, everyone! I wanted to have this posted before going on holiday. So, enjoy and please let me know what you think!**

* * *

Proposals

Eirian firmly shook her head. "Absolutely not."

"Is it because of Lord Vaughn's age?" asked Ithel, holding up the curling piece of parchment with the aforementioned lord's proposal. He gave the elegantly written document another cursory glance. "His offer is more than generous, in my opinion."

"It is indeed, but, _of course_, I cannot accept it because of his age," answered Eirian pointedly.

"My lady," began Ithel carefully. "Perhaps it would be wiser to leave out… physical attributes when deciding which proposal to accept?"

Eirian raised an indignant eyebrow. "I am not that much of a featherbrain, Ithel. My concerns lie in the fact that Lord Vaughn is likely to die somewhere between now and the next two years. Hardly enough time to establish enough power of my own, before becoming a widow again."

"Lord Eurig is younger," commented Ithel, after having put aside Lord Vaughn's proposal with a wistful look. "His son Huw is capable and dependable and ready to take over, which would allow Eurig to travel. You could stay at Caer Brannum often."

"Do you think he will agree to an arrangement in which his son Huw inherits his lands, while Caer Brannum goes to any children I have with Eurig?"

Ithel paused. "I believe he would. But more importantly, we must make sure that Huw does not claim that Caer Brannum becomes a part of _his_ inheritance, because you have married his father."

Eirian chewed on her lip. "Can we do that?"

"If you have a daughter instead of a son, no," said Ithel frankly. "And if you do have a son, it will only work if Lord Eurig is alive long enough to raise his son and form a bond between the siblings."

"Risky."

Ithel nodded. "Very."

"Next proposal."

"We have a number of second sons who seek to enlarge their own small inheritance through a marriage to you," said Ithel, sifting through a pile of parchment.

"Whose family is the most powerful?"

"Owain ap Alun's and Bran ap Dewydd's."

"Bran? He is only sixteen!" scoffed Eirian.

Ithel raised a bushy, white eyebrow. "Exactly." He smiled as understanding dawned on his lady's face.

"Plenty of time to mould him, you mean. Very well. Send them a message I'm willing to negotiate," ordered Eirian.

"What about a reply to Huw himself?" asked Ithel. "After all, they invited you to marry either the father or the son."

"I suppose we would side-step sibling rivalry if I married Huw," said Eirian.

"And it would mean that your children would rule both Caer Brannum and Elfed," added Ithel.

Eirian made a vague sound. "But Huw is an heir himself and a very talented one at that. Would I have anything left to say in a marriage with him?"

"Caer Brannum and Elfed together are a very large territory," replied Ithel slyly. "Huw could use a supportive wife to ease his responsibilities."

"Fine. Send him a reply as well."

Ithel gathered the proposals together. "With your permission, my lady, I would like to withhold a negative reply to the other proposals, until we have an answer from the three you've chosen."

"Why?" she frowned.

"Caution," said the old advisor. "Keeping our options open. And perhaps there might be a future candidate for your sister among them."

Eirian grimaced.

"A _future_ candidate, my lady," emphasized Ithel. "Who we must start keeping warm now."

"I suppose you're right," she admitted, grudgingly.

* * *

"Any news on the proposals?" asked Arthur, slumping relaxed in the saddle, the sun burning on his back. All around them, Caer Brannum's farmers were harvesting. Leaning on their scythes, they spent a moment to stare at the high king, before they went back to their hard work.

"Ithel is still busy," answered Lancelot. "He hopes to have it all done with by the end of summer."

"The border dispute between Dun Deifr and Gwyr has been growing increasingly hostile the last few weeks," pondered Arthur. "And I am leaving matters in Camelot unattended for too long."

"I know," agreed Lancelot. "We have to finish here soon."

They left the fields and steered their horses towards the town up ahead.

"I want to invite Caoc and Vincentius to Camelot to speak about this dispute as soon as possible," continued Arthur."

"Of course, but as long as the matter here is not settled," argued Lancelot, "leaving Eirian to herself will stir up even more trouble than Cadoc and Vincentius knocking heads against each other."

In silence they rode back to Caer Brannum. They were met by Gawain and Tristan, who were waiting for them by the stables. "Another report's just come in," grumbled Gawain. "There's been a skirmish between Dun Deifr and Gwyr's forces."

"I knew it," sighed Lancelot.

Arthur handed his mount over to the waiting stable boy and turned to Lancelot. "Make preparations for our departure. Leave some of the men here. I want to make it clear that we are not abandoning Eirian. You will be returning with me, and summon Vincentius and Cadoc immediately."

Lancelot nodded his assent.

"I would take Tristan back with you, if I were you," suggested Gawain drily.

Pushing himself off the wall he'd been leaning against, the scout sent a flat look at his comrade. Arthur looked a bit disgruntled at being reminded of Tristan's behaviour, but began walking towards the domus without commenting.

"I'll see if I can get Ithel to push things ahead faster," said Lancelot. "We'll be solving many problems with Eirian's marriage, but it will cause a shift in power towards whichever lord whose lands will expand by acquiring Caer Brannum. That'll kindle new quarrels for sure." He glanced at Tristan and sighed. "Pity we can't avoid that."

"We'll deal with that when the time comes," shrugged Gawain. "Can we please sort out one mess at a time?"

Arthur turned around with a grin. "He wouldn't be much of an advisor if he wasn't such a doom-monger."

Lancelot snorted. "Thank you. Your appreciation for my efforts is overwhelming."

* * *

Ever since Tristan had returned to Caer Brannum, Lancelot had been getting on his nerves. Of course, Tristan had to take into account the relative ease with which his irritation was provoked, but there was a distinct something about the way in which Lancelot was looking at him that Tristan did not like. It was appraising and conniving, and more than once Tristan had had to bite back a, "What are you looking at?"

Remarks such as, "Arthur wants this solved as soon as possible," and, "The longer we stay away from Camelot, the more trouble is brewing," seemed to be directed at him as well.

The king's departure from Caer Brannum had been unexpectedly delayed and Arthur had been cooped up with Eirian and Lancelot for days. Now it seemed they would finally find out why. Arthur, Guinevere, Eirian, and a few of the younger knights were away on a visit to the villages in the area, and Lancelot had called a meeting with the other knights.

"You all know that Eirian has agreed to marry," began the advisor.

"Aye, and thank the gods for it," groaned Galahad. "How soon can we leave? Cadoc and Vincentius need some sense knocked into them."

A sensible remark from the pup, Tristan thought. It was the second one this year already.

"We're not leaving yet," replied Lancelot. "She already agreed to it over two weeks ago. It seems the lady finally understood the risks her family is exposed to without her making a strong union."

"It was about bloody time," grumbled Bors.

"Are you going to tell us what this delay has been about?" inquired Dagonet.

"Aye, Lancelot. Why are we still here?" asked Gawain. "I take it you're not expecting us to help arrange a wedding?"

"No, Gawain, I am not," said Lancelot. "There isn't any wedding planned. Apparently, Arwel has not been sitting still for the last few weeks. Every marriage offer that we had, has been withdrawn, all accompanied by some flimsy excuse."

Gawain sat up straight, narrowing his eyes. "He's making his move."

"Aye, it is clear that Arwel means to isolate Eirian – has succeeded in that, in fact," agreed Lancelot. "His next step will be an attack on Caer Brannum, which will be supported by one or more of the lords."

"We're preparing for war then," deducted Gawain. "They've caught the scent of blood now. Even Arthur can't stop them from fighting over Caer Brannum."

"Ah," said Bors flippantly. "We haven't had a good fight in three years. Might do us good."

"Not necessarily," interrupted Lancelot, holding up his hand. "We can get involved in a war, or we can take the incentive away."

"The incentive is the absence of a lord in Caer Brannum," said Gawain sharply. "You just told us there are no more marriage proposals."

"Actually, we have one possibility, which, personally, I think was our best option from the start anyway," answered Lancelot, glancing at the scout.

Tristan was getting a very bad feeling about this.

"And what's that?" asked Gawain, lifting his cup to his mouth.

"I think our best option is to have Tristan marry Eirian," spoke Lancelot.

Gawain nearly spat his wine back into his cup. Tristan was thankful for that response, because it gave him some time to compose himself. He looked Lancelot in the eye and said steadily, "No."

"Would you please listen to what I have to say before you protest?" sighed Lancelot exasperatedly.

"No."

"It is not like you to be so unreasonable," Lancelot stated.

"It is not every day you ask me to marry a murderess."

Galahad nodded with a grin. "She might kill him in his bed. Then where would we be?"

Gawain groaned and smacked the back of his friend's head.

Rubbing the sore spot, Galahad added, "Well, we must keep in mind all those poor, leaderless little scouts."

The combined glare of his fellow knights shut him up.

"I am going to ask the question that I know Tristan is dying to ask, but won't," said Gawain dryly. "Have you gone completely mad, Lancelot?"

Tristan was actually dying to do something else, but permanently removing the royal advisor's head would probably be frowned upon by Arthur.

"No," replied Lancelot patiently. "I have not gone mad. Think about it. What other option do we have? There are no marriage proposals left, but she cannot remain unmarried, because it will incite a war sooner or later. If we leave things unattended, someone will either forcefully take over Caer Brannum or forcefully take Eirian or Tegwen as a wife. Either way, it will provoke the other lords into declaring war. They all want these lands."

Lancelot spread his arms, shrugging. "It has to be someone without sizeable lands of their own, so that there will be no major expansion of anyone's possessions, which would cause a shift in power. It does have to be someone with enough personal power and status to keep the other lords in check. Therefore all the younger knights are unsuitable, though we should consider marrying Tegwen to one of them."

"Lucan and Gilly both turn seventeen next month. Maybe we should introduce them to her?" suggested Galahad.

Lancelot nodded at Galahad. "They are who I had in mind."

"Leave my son out of this, will you," interrupted Bors.

"Can we stay on topic?" Tristan growled through his teeth. For the sake of his ancestral gods, if Lancelot did not hold his tongue very soon, he would not be responsible for his own actions.

"Eirian has to marry, and it has to be someone from court," Lancelot said. "Most of us are married. I couldn't possibly ask Dag to do this, not with him being attached to Gwenllian."

"And you can ask me?" inquired Tristan.

"You are not attached to any woman, are you?" retorted Lancelot mercilessly.

The others shifted uncomfortably at that, and Tristan needed a moment to regain his calm before he answered the question.

"No, and I am not attaching myself to _that_ woman."

"You're the best we have."

Tristan paused again, contemplating if he should take offence, before the most obvious flaw in Lancelot's argument hit him. He eyed the advisor thoughtfully. "What about you? Why don't you marry her?"

"I don't think that would go over too well with the lords," answered Lancelot. "If I married Eirian myself, if I married myself into Caer Brannum's wealth, it would give the lords too much reason to protest."

Gawain snorted. "The most influential political force acquiring the richest lands in the kingdom... You'd be making friends indeed, Lance."

"Exactly. And we need to keep Caer Brannum away from politics as much is possible," Lancelot added. "After all this mess, we should not give the lords any excuse to invade, as revenge for some decision Arthur or I made that does not sit well with them. If I were to marry Eirian, we would achieve exactly that."

"How long have you thought about this?" asked Tristan curtly. Trust Lancelot to come up with an hour's worth of arguments, while catching his opponent off-guard.

"For a while now," the advisor admitted. "When she first agreed to marry…"

Tristan's patience was quickly running out. "And you did not think to discuss this with me any sooner?"

"I am discussing it with you now," rejoined Lancelot. "Unlike me, Tristan, you keep yourself mostly away from politics, though I know you see much. And let's be honest, a lord of Caer Brannum with your reputation would have most lords trembling in their beds, and the rest would be sensible enough not to try anything."

Gawain and Galahad were looking at Tristan strangely. Good gods, they weren't starting to agree with Lancelot, were they?

"You know," began Gawain. "Purely hypothetically speaking, of course. You would still command the scouts, because I would not let you leave. And Arthur needs you at the Round Table. You would hardly even be in Caer Brannum."

The look Tristan sent around the room made it perfectly clear what he thought of his friends' mental state.

Lancelot smiled shrewdly. "Didn't you tell me that Caer Brannum was important, but that it didn't matter who sat on its throne? It might as well be you."

Tristan scoffed and Lancelot's eyes narrowed. "I also remember you telling Eirian that a little sacrifice was worth keeping the peace in the kingdom. Or did you just refer to a sacrifice on her part and you think it a different matter when it comes to a sacrifice _you_ would have to make?"

Tristan's mouth flattened. "Are you questioning my honour?"

"That depends on your answer."

"Lancelot, that's a little…" began Gawain disapprovingly.

Tristan balked at being driven into a corner by Lancelot. Inside, he was seething that his honour had been called into question, because of one heated remark he'd made, all to suit Lancelot's plan. But the advisor had a strong point and Tristan saw no way out.

Suddenly he thought of the perfect solution. Infallible. His mouth twitched. "Fine. But on one condition only."

"What is it?"

"Eirian has to agree."

Lancelot narrowed his eyes, but kept silent, though Tristan could see his jaw working.

Tristan smirked, adding, "After all, we would not want to force the lady to do something she might not want."

Ah, the satisfaction of seeing Lancelot having to restrain himself. His ridiculous plan was done with before it had even taken off. Without any doubts, Tristan trusted in Eirian's hatred of him.

"I think it might be best if you weren't present when we tell her," said Gawain hesitantly.

* * *

"Over my dead body."

"Please consider your options, lady Eirian," said Lancelot.

"I am fully aware of my options and their consequences," she replied snidely. "I have agreed to marry, but not – _not_ that man."

"Tristan is one of the most powerful men in the kingdom," Lancelot tried. "His reputation alone would – "

Eirian hissed. "I know all about his reputation. The stories about what he's done are known throughout Britannia. Now, he is a royal knight and I will show him proper courtesy for that…"

"…as long as he keeps his offensive mouth shut…" Gawain added in an undertone.

Eirian's cheeks tinged pink, but she continued, "…but there is no question about me marrying a man like that."

"There is no one else," sighed Lancelot. "The other lords have withdrawn their proposals. You're alone, Eirian. All you have is the support of the high king, but with lands like yours that is not going to be enough. Not when the succession is up for grabs."

Lancelot had chosen those last words with care. It was necessary to remind her of Arwel, who'd literally grabbed Tegwen and taken her away. If he'd had as little as one more day, he would have married the heiress and gained a very strong claim to Caer Brannum. Of course, any man could do the same to Eirian herself.

The lady's face darkened. Gritting her teeth, she looked away. "The court is full of knights," she said tensely. "Why him?"

"Most of the older knights are married already and a marriage to a younger knight would not give you the same status as a marriage to Tristan would."

She snorted. "The same status." Suddenly she looked at him hopefully. "You said _most_ of the older knights are already married."

"Dagonet is courting another lady. We expect them to announce their betrothal soon."

She eyed Lancelot thoughtfully. "What about you? Why can't I marry you?"

Gawain hid a guffaw behind a cough.

Lancelot cleared his throat. "Had I thought myself the better option, I would, of course, propose, but a marriage between us would only increase animosity. The royal advisor marrying himself into the richest lands in the kingdom? The resentment it would cause would create the war we are trying to avoid."

"And, Eirian, do you honestly think you would have a shred of control left over Caer Brannum with Lancelot as your husband? He enjoys politics and being on the foreground far too much," Gawain added bluntly.

Lancelot shrugged in resigned agreement. "Gawain has a point. Unlike me, Tristan does not care for such things. He has a keen eye for political machinations, but he is not interested in participating. Nor is he in ruling your lands. Even if he were interested, Gawain and the scouts keep him too busy. He would hardly even _be_ in Caer Brannum."

Eirian's expression became calculating. "I suppose you are right in assuming that a match between us would not be… wise," she nodded at Lancelot. "But a match between Tristan and me would be even worse. It can hardly have escaped your notice that we do not exactly see eye to eye. I cannot believe he would agree to a marriage. Maybe if you would just ask him first – "

"He has already agreed to it," Lancelot stated boldly, ignoring the furtive look from Gawain. A slight issue such as Tristan's marriage condition was easy to overlook, and he was a very busy man, who could not remember every tiny detail.

"What?" she frowned. "Surely he hasn't – "

"He has," Lancelot cut her off, "because he understands the importance of keeping this kingdom safe from another war."

"No matter the wife he ends up with?" she chuckled. "This is very hard to believe."

Lancelot looked at her sternly. "You might take into consideration that by marrying you, Tristan is also keeping your sister safe."

"Yes, that's very _noble_ of him," she drawled.

"Look, lady Eirian," said Gawain. "We know that Tristan has built himself a somewhat fearsome reputation, but he has earned that reputation amongst his _enemies_."

"I might not be his enemy per se, but I am hardly a friend either," she protested. "After all the things he's said and done to me and accused me of, you cannot, in all honestly, expect me to marry such a man and hand myself and my lands over to him?"

"We can," said Lancelot harshly, "because he is the only option you have."

She shook her head. "No. Absolutely not. I'd rather die."

Lancelot had dealt with enough dramatic women in his life to have not a shred of patience with them. "Fine," he said coldly. "Then we'll marry your sister to Tristan."

Her jaw dropped in horror. "You cannot be serious. He must be _thrice_ her age. She is a child!"

"She is thirteen. She is marriageable. "

"If you touch my sister, I will fight you with all I have."

"Then you will lose the only ally you have. You'll have made an enemy of your king, your allies, as well as your Saxon neighbours."

She was livid, they could tell. But also powerless.

"Think about it, Eirian," Gawain said soothingly. "Tristan will spend most of his time in Camelot. He isn't the least bit interested in ruling any land. He'll gladly leave Caer Brannum to you. I doubt any other husband would allow you the same."

She paled at the word 'husband'. "Oh God," she muttered, pressing a hand against her stomach.

"So, we are in agreement?" Lancelot pushed on.

"Do I have a choice?" she retorted bitterly.

"You do," he replied coolly. "You just don't find the consequences acceptable."

She averted her face, trying to hide the anger on it.

"You agree to this marriage?"

"Yes," she snapped. "I agree."

"Good," Lancelot smiled. "The Queen will love to have a wedding at her hands."

* * *

Tristan felt distinctly nauseated. "She agreed?"

"Aye," nodded Lancelot briskly. "She protested at first, but after we explained our reasoning, she was perfectly sensible."

Gawain rolled his eyes. "Don't worry, Tris. She is more than happy to let you resume your duties at Camelot. You'll have a most encouraging wife in that regard."

"She would appreciate it if you left the daily rule of her lands to her, of course," Lancelot added.

"I have absolutely no interest in taking over Caer Brannum," snapped Tristan.

"Excellent," smiled Lancelot. "That concludes negotiations. I'll let Guinevere know she can start arranging the wedding."

Tristan's mind was working at full speed, trying to find a way to get out of this predicament, but the bloody advisor had outsmarted him. Lancelot glanced at him sideways. "Your marriage will keep the peace in the kingdom."

Aye, he was stuck indeed.

Tristan cursed under his breath and stalked out of the room.

He spent the rest of the day stewing, but his mood descended into a truly foul blackness the next day, when Eirian's servants began looking at him curiously, giggling and whispering, a few of them actually curtsying and calling him 'my lord'. This was Lancelot's doing, he was sure of it.

In addition, it seemed Guinevere had taken over Caer Brannum. She had the wedding scheduled for the following week, after which the royal party would leave for Camelot for a celebratory feast. It would allow Arthur to speak to Vincentius and Cadoc soon enough to hopefully prevent more bloodshed. Because of the inappropriate haste with which the wedding was planned, its preparations had the whole town in a frenzy. He'd been summoned to the Queen's chambers, where he was met by a seamstress, who measured him and then began to badger him with different types of cloths.

After he'd growled out that the woman could pick whatever the hell she liked, and left, he was called back to Guinevere, who demanded to know who he wanted to invite to his wedding.

Tristan discovered that he was developing a rather intense dislike of the word 'wedding'.

He told Guinevere that he did not care who showed up at his wedding. "Let Lancelot decide," he snapped. "Let's not pretend this is anything other than a political ruse."

Guinevere bristled. "And you will behave in such a way that this ruse is not compromised," she said curtly.

Therefore, he decided it was best if he steered clear of his 'wedding' altogether. He saddled Fedir and rode out of the town, into the lands that would soon be his.

* * *

"You don't think he's taken off, do you?"

"It's Tristan. He doesn't run from anything."

"Aye, but this just might have pushed him over the edge."

"I think he tumbled over that edge years ago."

The conversation between the two royal knights lifted Eirian's mood slightly. Mother of God, she prayed her husband-to-be had indeed galloped straight out of her lands, never to return. It was her only way out of this. Of course, that would leave her with the prospect of war, but she would cross that bridge when she got there. And frankly, she thought she preferred war over Tristan.

Remembering the double threat Lancelot had made against her sister – and yes, she considered the idea of marrying Tegwen to Tristan also a threat – she gritted her teeth. The fact remained that without that bloody man, her sister was bait for any man who was interested in Caer Brannum. The same went for herself, of course. And letting her people suffer in a war because of her personal feelings, was not something she could reconcile herself with.

She curled her lip up in disgust. Though reconciling herself to the idea of being Tristan's wife seemed just as impossible.

The two knights were about to come around the corner, so she carefully straightened her face and nodded at them once they were in her view. "Sir Galahad, sir Bors."

Father-in-law and son-in-law stopped in their tracks, looking a bit guilty. "Lady Eirian," they answered.

"Still no word from my… _betrothed_?" she inquired.

"No," answered Galahad.

"How unfortunate."

Both men stared at her doubtfully.

Perhaps she had been laying the sarcasm on a bit thick, she thought. She smiled and added, "Though I'm sure we can rely on him finding his way." Preferably the way out of Caer Brannum, her mind finished helpfully for her.

"Of course," nodded Galahad.

She bid the two a good day and passed them, on her way to her chambers.

"Poor Tristan," she heard the younger one sigh. "He's going to have his hands full with that one."

Eirian's pace faltered, and she had to press her lips tightly together not to make a scathing remark. Huffing, she lengthened her strides and stalked all the way to her chambers, slamming the door shut.

She uttered a few words that had made their way into her upbringing despite her mother's best efforts, and poured herself a cup of wine. With a sigh she reclined on the sofa under the window, enjoying the soft breeze that made the curtains whisper. She closed her eyes, letting the list of things she had to check on or attend to slip for a moment, and tried to relax the stiff muscles of her neck and shoulders, which seemed to have adopted that state permanently.

"Eirian?"

"Just because it's you, doesn't mean you can enter without knocking," she mumbled without opening her eyes.

"I did knock," answered Rhodri, amused. "Three times. Your handmaid let me in."

"Ah." She must have dozed off then. With a small sigh, she opened her eyes.

He frowned. "You look tired."

"You look filthy," she retorted, without missing a beat.

"Ah, the compliments my lady bestows on me warm my humble heart," proclaimed Rhodri, his hand on the mentioned organ.

"Shut up and pour yourself a drink. Your voice is creaking like a frog and it interferes with your praising."

Rhodri coughed. "It's dusty outside."

"I know," she replied. "I hope it will stay that way. We haven't had rain in a while and if it starts pouring now the harvest will be at risk."

"You insist on worrying about everything, don't you?" said Rhodri. "Someone surely must have told you that you can't control the weather by thinking about it all the time."

Eirian raised a dark eyebrow. "You can't? Watch me."

Rhodri snorted and drank deeply from his cup.

"How are things in the barracks? They've been overcrowded for a long time now with the king's men."

"Surprisingly good," answered the commander. "Gawain keeps them all busy during the day, and your idea of joint meals is working out well. There have been a few scraps, but we've dealt with them swiftly."

"Good," said Eirian. "Gawain keeps _you_ busy as well, doesn't he?"

"That he does," nodded Rhodri. "I am learning a lot from him."

"Well, at least I know you're spending your time making yourself useful."

Rhodri rolled his eyes. "May I sit down, my lady, after making myself useful all day, or do you have no pity at all?"

"I have absolutely no pity with you, but you can have part of the sofa if you must," she sighed. She drew up her legs, so he could sit.

"You're in a mood today," he observed.

She gave him her most dazzling smile, but turned it into a horrific grimace when he looked unimpressed.

"You're not fooling me," said Rhodri drily. "Though I have missed seeing that smile lately."

"Well, savour it while you can," snorted Eirian. "I doubt you'll see it much once I'm married."

Rhodri downed his wine and cleared his throat. "Aye, I was hoping I could talk to you about that."

She sighed. "I'm surprised you waited this long," she replied softly.

He contorted his face, looking at his empty cup. "I thought it was better to figure out what I was going to say, instead of going off immediately."

"I appreciate your thoughtfulness."

"No, you don't," he deadpanned. "You've been needling me for days."

"I haven't been needling you," said Eirian. "I've just been trying to come to terms with this and you are the only person I can talk to without… without having to think about implications and consequences. But this, I suppose, is a subject that is –"

"A bit sensitive?"

"Yes."

"Well, let's discuss it then," sighed Rhodri. "I don't have to ask if you've thought about this, because you overthink everything, but Tristan? Eirian, what _are_ you thinking?"

She shrugged. "His is the only marriage offer I have left. I need him to keep my so-called allies at bay."

Rhodri swore and stood up. "He is the last thing you need!" he protested. "Wasn't Ifan enough for you? I've seen what being married to him did to you!"

"You're making it sound far worse than it was," she countered, waving a dismissive hand at him.

"Oh yes, it was not bad at all," sneered Rhodri. "I remember you reacted so well to being neglected and dismissed by the person who was supposed to act like your husband. I remember you continuously reaching out to him and him turning away, and I remember not being able to do a thing about it even better. I cannot believe you are making excuses for him!"

Eirian looked away. "I learned my lesson eventually, didn't I? And his disinterest got me where I wanted to be. That's why I am making excuses for him."

"And now that you are where you want to be, you are giving it away to _him_? To Tristan? You do know the tales that they tell about him? You honestly cannot agree to a marriage so much worse than your first!"

Eirian raised her hackles. "It is not for you to decide what I can or cannot do!"

Rhodri clenched and unclenched his jaw. "I know that," he replied, trying to keep his voice calm, but not succeeding entirely.

Eirian sighed and stood up as well. "I'm sorry, Rhodri, but I can't let my personal feelings stand in the way of what's best for Caer Brannum. And if Tristan and his reputation are going to keep Tegwen and my people safe, then I will marry him."

God, if only she could convince herself, she thought miserably.

"He is not the only option you have," said Rhodri, walking towards her. "My offer still stands."

Eirian had to bite the inside of her lip. "I know," she said gently. "And if we do that, Arwel will use it as proof that we killed Ifan. He will turn the other lords against me even more than they already are."

"We can fight," Rhodri interrupted her vehemently. "The king knows you're innocent."

Eirian's face fell. "Well, that's the final complication," she sighed. "Lancelot has made it perfectly clear that if I do not marry Tristan, I will lose the support of the king. They will marry Tegwen to Tristan."

"That's… that's…" sputtered Rhodri. "Even Tristan would not agree to that."

"I'm not so sure about that," she muttered. "But it illustrates my point. If I do not marry, I will leave Tegwen vulnerable. I will expose her to the likes of Arwel. She'll never be safe." She gave him a self-deprecating smile. "And nobody wants to marry me but Tristan."

"And me."

"And marrying you would put Tegwen and Caer Brannum in a war that I can't win. Not without Arthur. We're just going around in circles."

Rhodri shook his head.

"Listen to me, Rhodri," began Eirian, reaching out to touch his arm. "We've already had this discussion. I thought we'd settled it. It was never a possibility."

"That doesn't mean I have to like it, seeing you marry someone else," hissed Rhodri furiously.

"I don't like it either, but it is what I am going to do," she said firmly.

"Tristan is going to hurt you, Eirian," said Rhodri desperately. "He already has – I've seen that bruise on your wrist from where he grabbed you. He did that to a reigning lady. What do you think he'll do when you're his wife? When you're his? When Caer Brannum is his?"

Eirian swallowed her queasiness away. "Stop it," she ordered him. "It doesn't matter. And Caer Brannum is mine. Tristan will be in Camelot half the time anyway."

"You are set on doing this, aren't you?"

"Yes," she answered.

No, she thought.

Rhodri nodded. "Excuse me," he said quietly, turning around and exiting.

Eirian sat down on her sofa again, to prevent herself from going after Rhodri, squeezing her hands. This was madness, she told herself. She didn't want to do this. Was it even worth it? Her mind immediately reiterated all the sensible arguments she had come up with, but this time it didn't help to calm her down.

She blinked away the moist in her eyes when there was a soft knock on her door.

"Come in," she called, smoothening the creases her fists had made clenching her dress.

Bethyn, her handmaid, stepped inside, curtsying. "I thought you would like to know that sir Tristan has returned, my lady."

Eirian closed her eyes. She was trapped.


	10. Wedding Preparations

**A/N: *cough* well, you know what they say... better late than never. *ducks behind desk***

**Anyways, the next chapter, in which Tristan is his usual pleasant self and Eirian is having control issues... I hope you enjoy it!**

* * *

**Wedding Preparations**

"So you decided to return after all?" asked Gawain, leaning in the doorway of their guest room.

Tristan splashed a handful of water in his face and motioned with one hand at his bed, wiping his eyes with the other. Gawain walked over and took the knife and towel waiting there. He placed the knife in Tristan's outstretched hand.

"You all thought I wouldn't come back?" replied Tristan, quickly stilling an amused twitch of his lips when he scraped the knife over his beard.

"Well," answered Gawain, studying the weave pattern of the towel, "the thought may have crossed my mind. Once. Maybe twice."

Tristan hmpfed in reply, pulling the skin of his jaw taut to trim the hairs.

"It was cruel of you to give the lady such hope," continued Gawain cheekily. "She was becoming rather cheerful after a few days of your absence."

The scout glared at his friend from the corner of his eye, but Gawain pressed his luck and went on, "I can't imagine the devastation she must be suffering, after hearing of her betrothed's return."

Tristan put his knife down with a clang. "I can leave again," he snapped.

Gawain held up his hands and then waved the white cloth for good measure. "Peace, peace. Finish your shaving, you're lopsided."

"Glad to see someone is amusing himself over all this." Tristan ran the knife over his other cheek, thankful for the royal commander's sudden silence. He finished his shaving, wiped his face with the towel he jerked from Gawain's hands, and pocketed his knife.

"I wasn't that keen on marrying either, if you recall," said Gawain suddenly.

Tristan quirked an eyebrow. "You are comparing Ragnell to _Eirian_? Don't insult your wife."

"I am not insulting my wife, Tristan," replied Gawain exasperatedly. "I only meant to say that you might be dreading something that will fall into place better than you think."

"And you are basing this on your own marriage?"

"Obviously."

"Did Ragnell try to start a war by herself?"

Gawain hesitated, then said, "No."

"Did Ragnell kill her first husband?"

The commander sighed. "No."

"Did Ragnell bring an adulterous affair from that first marriage into her second marriage?"

"No."

Tristan said no more.

"Fine," conceded Gawain. "You're right. Though your last two points are just suspicions. There is no proof for it."

"Would you have married Eirian if you'd been asked?" inquired Tristan. "Despite the suspicions?"

"Given the circumstances, of course I would," said Gawain.

Tristan gave a vague grunt, looked down at his clothes, and decided they could do with a change. With brusque movements he began to unlace his neckline.

His friend sighed. "Look at the bright side – and don't tell me there isn't a bright side. In a few days' time you will rule over some of the wealthiest lands in the kingdom. A knight of the Round Table as well as a powerful lord."

Pulling his tunic over his head and tossing it aside, Tristan snapped, "You know I don't care about that."

"Exactly. Your wife – don't scowl – will take care of your nagging subjects and you will be free to go to Camelot or gallop off into the _many _lands that will be yours. And I know they are to your liking. You've been wandering around at every chance you had."

The scout shot a dubious look towards the commander and rubbed his neck. "I will spend all my time in those cursed gatherings of whingeing lords, all moaning about insults and slights and not getting their way."

Gawain scoffed. "Take Eirian with you. With your reputation and her pushiness I guarantee you all discussions will end in your favour. And quickly too."

After running a wet cloth over his arms and torso, Tristan put on a new tunic. "I hate politics."

"You don't have to be a politician. You just stand next to Eirian and glare at the others. We all know you're good at that." Tristan gave a reluctant grin at hearing Gawain's petulant tone. It was like listening to Galahad. Those two obviously spent too much time together. "Hah," responded Gawain immediately. "I think I just spotted your third smile in twenty-three years. Glad to see you haven't lost the ability entirely. Don't reveal it to Eirian without warning her first, though. The shock might kill her."

At the mention of his betrothed Tristan's face fell again. Gawain rolled his eyes. "For heaven's sake, it is not that bad. Am I going to have to hold your hand all the way to the altar?"

Tristan scoffed. "With a blade aimed at my back in your other hand, no doubt."

"If need be," shrugged Gawain. "Come on, let's go and present ourselves to her ladyship. I'm starving."

* * *

Eirian was waiting for the wedding guests from her lands on the steps of the villa. She had folded her hands to hide their trembling. Now that more than half of her vassals were here, there was absolutely nothing to do but go through with this preposterous marriage.

Tristan had returned three days ago and though he might not ignore her outright, Eirian thought his utter indifference to whatever she said or did were probably worse. He couldn't have made it any clearer that he wanted nothing to do with her, and Eirian felt exactly the same about him.

Ifan had been indifferent too, which had suited Eirian perfectly. It puzzled her therefore that she was so much unnerved by Tristan acting the same way. Maybe it was because she had changed. Communicating with Tristan was like communicating with a wall. Nothing she said or did seemed to get a hold of him. Eirian bit her lip. _That_ was what unnerved her. She had absolutely no influence over him and she was about to hand over her lands and herself to him.

She hadn't had any influence over Ifan either, but she'd had her father and Rhodri as a buffer. Her opinion had mattered to them. Her father had allowed her to pull some of the strings in the lord's hand, and after his death she had held all of the strings. And liked it. Tomorrow all of those strings would be in Tristan's uncaring hand. She would have no more say in Caer Brannum's affairs. There would be no Lord Meirion to protect her, no Rhodri. Eirian sighed. Her commander's animosity towards her future husband had been so obvious that she had sent him away to enhance the defences in the valley bordering on the Saxon lands.

Once she was married, Tristan would become supreme commander of her men and Rhodri would have to answer to him. It was not a question of if but when this was going to cause problems. No, Eirian did not doubt that her second marriage would less peaceful than her first.

It was not only her loss of power that unnerved her. It was the matter of man she was losing it to too. She'd heard the stories people told about Arthur's first scout. She had experienced his behaviour first-hand. For the few times she _had_ managed to get a response out of him, it had been anger.

Tristan came walking out of the doors to stand next to her. Eirian felt her body freeze, her hands clenching. It seemed this reaction to him got worse as the wedding day came closer. As a reigning lady, her status protected her. The way she had treated him – had dared to treat him - had stemmed from that knowledge. And even then, she had never been comfortable around him. And even then, he had treated her as if he could care less about her position.

She dreaded to think how he would treat her once she was his wife. Ever since she'd agreed to marry him, she feared her earlier behaviour would come back to haunt her.

Eirian breathed slowly through her nose to calm herself. She could not allow herself to show any fear. She had her people to think of, her sister, who all needed to see her as a lady doing the best for her people. And she was doing the best for her people, but she feared she was doing what was worst for herself.

It was as if fate was playing with her. From being on an equal standing with him, she would tumble down to being at his mercy. The mercy of a man who was reported not to have any. Not only would she have to relinquish her power over her lands, she would be relinquishing it to a man who hated her, who had no bond with her people and her lands, who had a reputation of coldness, viciousness, and cruelty.

There was nothing she could do about it. Eirian closed her burning eyes for a moment, taking another slow and deliberate breath. She told herself off for thinking like that. It was not going to do her any good, except make her hysterical.

And she could not afford to lose her calm. She had to make this look like a strong alliance. Pulling her shoulders back and raising her chin, Eirian forced her body into a seemingly relaxed pose as she stood next to her betrothed, who didn't deign to glance at her once. As the train of arriving guests crowded the courtyard, Eirian managed to lock her fears away and smiled for all she was worth, accepting congratulations and welcoming her vassals to Caer Brannum.

Tristan was formal and distant, not a crack in his polite, but aloof expression, as the people she had known all her life paid their respects to their future lord. Eirian bit back a vexed sigh. Was it not possible for the man to allow a change in his expression, however slight it may be?

The moment there was a pause between greeting guests, she opened her mouth, only to immediately snap it shut again. _Think_ before you speak, she heard her advisor's voice in her head. Starting an argument with her betrothed on the day before her marriage was something Ithel would strongly advise against. So she held her tongue. And resented him even more for it.

When the last of her guests were being escorted inside, Eirian turned on her heels to follow them. She wanted to have a look in the kitchen to see how supper was progressing, her wedding gown required a final fitting, and the Queen wanted to go over the wedding day itself again.

She gave a quick nod to Tristan and left as quickly as she could.

"A word, Eirian."

She froze, slowly turning around to face her betrothed. With effort, she managed not to grimace. How she hated that word. "Yes?"

"In private."

"That is hardly proper," she protested primly. The last thing she wanted was to be alone with him.

Tristan did not say anything, but he didn't have to. The mocking twist of his lips made it perfectly clear what he was thinking. Eirian wanted to kick herself for her words. Acting like an innocent maiden, instead of the reigning lady that she was, in front of _him_ no less. She swallowed her pride, ignored the derision that had appeared in his eyes, and said imperiously, "Follow me."

Scolding herself all the way back to her rooms, she nevertheless made sure she stayed ahead at least three steps, though this gave that bloody man the opportunity to bore his eyes into the back of her head.

"Leave us," she commanded her handmaids after opening the door to her rooms. They curtsied and then again when Tristan entered. Her staff had given the knight the respect of a lord from the moment their marriage had been announced. Part of her was glad that this at least was not going to cause problems, but another part of her became even more frustrated than she already was. He was already taking over.

Once the door was closed, Eirian folded her arms. "Well?"

Tristan took in her defensive stance and took two steps closer. Eirian tightened her arms, but held her ground, while the scout looked her up and down at his leisure. "What?" she hissed through her teeth.

"You sent Rhodri away," he said, once his eyes had travelled back to her face. "Were you afraid he was going to cause trouble?"

Eirian bristled. "The orders I give to my commander are none of your concern," she snapped. _Think _before you speak, Ithel's voice reminded her again.

"As of tomorrow, they are," retorted Tristan.

Her mind told her to be careful, to avoid antagonising him, but the resentment that had been brewing inside her since her betrothal now spilled over, and once again her tongue was faster than her common sense. "Do you think that, starting tomorrow, you can simply start telling me – " she began heatedly, but Tristan interrupted her, his eyes flashing.

"Starting tomorrow, Rhodri _will_ take his orders from me or his commander days are over," said her betrothed tersely. "And so will you." When he saw her mutinous expression, he took another step closer. "Let me add one more thing, Eirian. I know I am marrying a widow, and not a maiden. I don't mind that." He loomed over her, articulating his next words clearly and sharply. "But I do not share."

Eirian flushed a bright shade of red. "You're disgusting."

Tristan shrugged, unconcerned. "As you say. But remember that I am not Ifan, and if I see you and Rhodri as much as look at each other in a way I don't like, Caer Brannum will be burying its commander."

She stared at him with open mouth. "Are you threatening to kill my commander?"

"I am making myself clear, _wife_."

"I am not your wife yet. I will call this wedding off."

He smirked. "And do what? Fight a double war against the Saxons and your former allies?"

Eirian clenched her teeth together. "Fine," she spat out after a moment. "Are you quite finished now? I have preparations to oversee."

Tristan stepped aside, making an inviting gesture towards the door. She jerked it open, but before she could leave, his words halted her in her tracks. "Don't forget what I said."

The cold threat in his voice extinguished her anger, replacing it with now familiar dread. Eirian closed her eyes, then stepped through the door without a reply.


	11. Married

**A/N: Thanks, everyone, for reviewing. I'm very happy that you are still interested in this story. I hope you will enjoy this (quicker) update!**

**Also, this chapter is rated M. You can probably guess why... ;)**

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* * *

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**Married**

Eirian woke the next morning with a kink in her neck and her sister sitting on the edge of her bed. Muffling a pained groan, she sat up, feeling her back muscles cramp. Great, she thought. Tension always manifested itself in the muscles of her shoulders and back.

"Are you all right?" asked Tegwen, concerned.

Eirian carefully rolled her neck between her shoulders. "I think I must have slept folded in two. Go and ask Bethyn to prepare a bath, if you will."

Tegwen nodded and left her bedroom, coming back after a moment to sit on the same spot she had just vacated, casually playing with a corner of her sister's blanket.

"You're not trying to escape from your maids, are you?" inquired Eirian lightly. "They will get you anyway – they have been thoroughly instructed by the Queen."

Her sister shrugged. "No, I'm not hiding. And I like my new dress. I look forward to wearing it." She smoothened some creases in Eirian's bed sheets, avoiding looking at her.

Eirian tried to catch her eyes. "But…"

Tegwen sighed. "But… nothing at all. I just wanted to speak to you. I've barely had the chance to see you in private since… "

"Since Tristan brought you back," finished Eirian for her.

"Yes. I do understand, don't worry. I know what's been going on and I know how busy you've been."

It was so difficult for Eirian not to see Tegwen as a little girl anymore, but the change in her since she'd been abducted had never been more obvious than in the words she'd just uttered. "Tegwen," she said, kindly. "You know you can say anything to me. Spit it out."

"How can you go through with this?" her sister burst out.

Slightly taken aback, Eirian asked, "What do you mean?"

"Marrying Tristan is what I mean!" answered Tegwen, now even more agitated.

"Why do you mind?" frowned Eirian. "Has he been unkind to you?"

Tegwen rolled her eyes. "No, of course not."

To her sister, that wasn't such a matter of course, but she bit her tongue. "Then what?"

"He's been unkind to _you_, and you don't like _him_ either. I've heard some of the things you've said about him. And now, now you are going to marry him? I'm not an idiot, Eirian. I know you are doing this to keep me safe. But you don't want to!"

"Tegwen…"

"I know you don't want to! And yet, you don't even pause, or blink or…or… hesitate!"

"Tegwen…"

"I don't understand how you can do this!"

"Tegwen, listen to me," said Eirian, raising her voice. "I promised I wouldn't treat you as a child anymore, so I will discuss my reasons with you."

"You will?" asked her sister, surprised.

"Yes, I will," answered Eirian, a smile tugging at her lips. "Now, first of all, yes, I am marrying Tristan to keep you safe. But it is not the only reason." As her sister elaborated on her motivations, Tegwen settled on the bed, listening attentively. Eirian was frank in her explanations, ignoring the urge to palliate the circumstances for her sister's sake.

"This is what Father would have done," finished Eirian. "This is the best for everyone."

"But not for you," replied Tegwen.

"What's best for Caer Brannum is what's best for me," countered the lady.

"That is what Father would say," admitted Tegwen grudgingly. She bit her lip. "But what if you're unhappy?"

The door to the bedroom opened. "My lady? Your bath is ready," said Bethyn.

Eirian slipped out of bed and put on a robe. She looked at her sister, who was looking back at her with the same blue eyes as her own, the eyes of their mother. A soothing, trivial reply that it would be all right was already on her lips to brush aside Tegwen's concerns, but Eirian changed her mind. "That might happen, yes. But if it does, I'll manage."

"Because you were also unhappy with Ifan," added Tegwen, her face serious. "And you managed that too."

"Yes, I managed that too."

* * *

The hot water relaxed Eirian's muscles enough for her to move without pain. She said very little as her maids laced up her gown and tugged on her hair, piling it up at the back of her head. Her gown was made of rich blue silk, embroidered with goldthread. Her seamstress had been told by the Queen not to spare any cost and she had clearly obeyed.

She breakfasted in her room with Tegwen, who looked like a young lady in her own attire and her hair in an intricate braid. Eirian hardly touched her food, which her sister noticed, but didn't comment on. After they finished, they walked to the atrium, where her guests were assembling. In a little while they would go to the garden for the ceremony. Eirian found herself engaged in small-talk, providing polite answers while her mind was miles away. Directed by her servants, the guests began to move towards the garden.

A pang of anxiety attacked her when she spotted Tristan at the other side of the atrium, speaking to a few of the other knights. They clapped him on the shoulder, before they followed the other guests, inclining their head to her as they passed her.

Eirian was beginning to feel nauseous. Tristan's face was inscrutable as he walked to her. He was wearing a black tunic, embroidered with the same blue silk and goldthread of her dress, no doubt arranged by the seamstress and the Queen. His breeches were black, and so were his boots. His dark hair, still damp, fell into his face as usual, making it even more difficult to read him.

Wordlessly, he held out his arm and she placed her hand on it, willing her fingers to stop trembling. They walked outside together, into a crowd of smiling guests. Eirian plastered something resembling a smile on her own face, though it felt so false she suspected people could tell. Tristan, of course, did not even bother.

The King himself would marry them, a great honour – and a clear sign to the lords in the kingdom. As a magistrate for Rome, Meirion had adopted the empire's official religion, Christianity, but he had also worshipped the old British gods, so as not to offend them. Eirian had asked for a priest to give his blessing to the marriage, and, like her father, had begged the goodwill of her ancestors' gods in private just before she had gone to the atrium. She was going to need all the help she could get. She had been told Tristan believed in the gods of his birth land. He hadn't made any demands about the ceremony, though.

They stood in front of the King, who, instead of beginning the ceremony, looked to his side.

Heledd, her cook, walked towards them, carrying a decorated bread, a wreath of periwinkle around it. It was a braided bread, decorated with figures of birds and flowers, the top a softly shining golden colour. It was unlike anything she had ever seen her cook make and she did not understand.

"You baked a _korovai_?" Tristan asked Heledd.

Heledd smiled. "As instructed by his lordship the royal advisor. Don't worry, my lord, it is made according to your traditions and it has received the proper blessings."

Eirian assumed that the royal advisor had added some things from Tristan's homeland despite the scout's lack of wishes.

"Thank you," he said and accepted the bread from her. Tristan inclined his head to his countrymen, standing nearby. "It is to be shared with the guests after the ceremony," he then told Heledd, and gave her back the bread.

After Heledd had walked away, the King asked her and Tristan to clasp hands. Her fingers intertwined with Tristan's much larger ones. The intimacy of the gesture threw her off, but she had no time to react as the King began fasting their hands together with the silk ribbon that had been used at her parents' wedding – and her first.

To her surprise the King didn't stop then. Over the ribbon he wrapped a white cloth, richly embroidered in red with foreign-looking images. She noticed Tristan looking up, and then to the side where Lancelot was standing, who shrugged with a sly smile. Tristan snorted softly, shaking his head once, before turning his attention back to the ceremony.

Eirian's voice didn't falter once when she made her vows, an effort which took a lot of strength. Tristan repeated the vows stoically and coolly, after which the priest blessed the marriage. She didn't pay much attention, simply focusing on the pattern of the cloth around her hand, trying to keep her nausea down. There were red ducks, flowers, and something she thought was a rising sun. The priest finished by making the sign of the Cross over them. The King added his own well-wishes, and then it was done. She was married.

The King gave the embroidered cloth to Tristan, and then unbound their hands, giving the ribbon to Eirian. Tristan gave her the cloth as well. "This belongs to the bride."

They faced the crowd, which began to cheer and shout out wishes for good luck, fertility, and health. Tristan's brothers-in-arms were calling out phrases in a foreign tongue, Sarmatian no doubt.

With nods and smiles Eirian accepted the congratulations, her nausea increasing tenfold. She swallowed the bile in her throat back, knowing she would not be in private for a long time. She had to see this through. An appearance to her people was next. There would be food and games the entire day and night, in honour of the marriage, but what people wanted most was to see their lady and the new lord.

It looked like the town was bursting from its seams. People from all over the valley had gathered, shouting their approval when their lord and lady appeared. Eirian waved and smiled some more while they were being showered with flowers, hoping she would not lose her meagre breakfast in front of her people. Despite the warm afternoon, it was a cold sweat that she broke into.

They walked down the main road to greet more people, and Eirian was not aware of how tightly she was gripping Tristan's arm until he frowned slightly and looked down at her. With a final nod at the gathered people, he steered her around and headed back up the hill to the villa. "Don't pass out," he growled under his breath.

"I won't," she denied. "I'm just feeling quea –" She had to take a deep breath to control a new wave of nausea.

"What's wrong?" asked Tegwen, once they were inside the villa's gates again. Many of the guests were still in the inner garden, being served refreshments. A few ladies gathered around Eirian.

"Nothing, nothing," said Eirian. "Probably just the excitement."

Tristan delivered her in the hands of the worried ladies, who sat her down inside and called for water. All Eirian really wanted was to be left alone, but she realised that wouldn't happen. After one look at the fussing women, Tristan walked away, having a cup of wine pressed in his hand almost immediately by the royal knights, who welcomed him with mischievous remarks about making his wife nervous.

A few of the ladies around Eirian heard it too and chuckled. A young daughter of one of her vassals, only a year or two older than Tegwen, said, "I would be nervous too, my lady. His lordship does cut an impressive figure."

Eirian stared at the girl in disbelief, lowering her cup of water. She wondered how the girl would take it if she told her that the thought of being married to Tristan did not make her nervous, but physically sick.

Olwen, an aunt of Eirian's late mother, patted her cousin's hand, as she told the girl who'd just spoken, "Now, now, Catrin, our lady has been married before, so she knows what to expect and has no need to be nervous. I daresay even that she is most pleased to be spending the wedding night with a husband like that."

A few of the other ladies smiled covertly at each other, but Catrin glanced at the new lord, a doubtful frown on her young face. "Well, he is a bit frightening, isn't he? And the tales they tell about him…"

"Catrin!" Olwen's chastisement lashed like a whip and the girl cringed. "Have you no shame? That is no way to speak of Caer Brannum's lord."

Why wasn't it? thought Eirian. It was true. And she was not nervous about the wedding night. She knew what would happen. She had endured it with Ifan, she would endure it with Tristan. It didn't last long and because Tristan would spend much of his time in Camelot, it wouldn't happen often anyway.

No, that wasn't what was making her sick. It was the fact that she had been married for less than an hour and her vassals were already defending him and calling him their lord.

* * *

It took a while for Eirian to recover, after which more wine was distributed to drink to the married couple. Tristan was grateful for the distraction, because for the last half hour he'd had to listen to Gawain's well-meant advice that he should try to discover something that he could please Eirian with, to avoid any unnecessary strain on the marriage. All this, of course, because Gawain obviously thought there was going to be strain enough, no need to add _unnecessary_ strain.

"All I'm trying to say," Gawain explained exasperatedly, after the contemptuous snort of his brothers-in-arms that Ragnell had him whipped, "is that, if you want to avoid getting into constant arguments, you just – "

"If Tristan wants to avoid getting into arguments," interrupted Bors, "he should keep her mouth occupied with other things than words."

Gawain raised his eyebrows, contemplating that. "Agreed, that would also work."

Tristan thought it best not to comment. At that moment Arthur raised his cup, which fortunately diverted the knights. After Arthur's toast, Eirian asked the guests to sit down at the tables in the atrium for the wedding meal. Tristan followed her to his seat next to her and Arthur. As usual the food served was perfect and the freely flowing wine made for a merry atmosphere.

Tristan and Arthur discussed the plans for dealing with the border dispute between Vincentius and Cadell, who were on their way to Camelot at that very moment for the celebratory feast in honour of Tristan's marriage. The royal party would depart in the morning.

Beside him, Tristan noticed, Eirian ate very little and said even less, moving her food around her plate and breaking pieces of bread into tinier and tinier parts without eating them. The woman next to her tried to engage Eirian in conversation, but received nothing more than a half-hearted smile and a friendly, but very short answer.

It was unusual, to say the least. He had never seen Eirian reveal any of her feelings in public, and now it was more than obvious that something was bothering her. It was not hard to guess what it was.

After the meal, the tables were removed and there was music and dancing, and more wine. Tristan danced the obligatory dance with his bride, who stiffened when he put his hand on her waist and said nothing, keeping her eyes fixed on his shoulder.

After that, she danced with Arthur, for whom she managed to act more charmingly, Tristan observed as he led Guinevere around the floor. She looked up at him with sharp, dark eyes. "You are not speaking to each other," she commented.

Tristan averted his eyes from Eirian to look at the Queen. "There is not much to say."

"You could make an effort."

He was spared the necessity of a reply when Heledd the cook, came in carrying the _korovai, _which was then cut into a part for himself and Eirian, and a part that was divided amongst the guests. Eirian ate her part slowly and without appetite, even though the bread was delicious and sweetened with honey.

More toasts followed and then the music resumed. Tristan found a place a little more quiet, away from the dancers. It was an activity that came easily to him, but he did not like it, being more comfortable observing others than being in the middle of things.

Dagonet came to stand next to him, probably seeking a place away from eager female hands as well. They drank their wine in companionable silence, as they watched the crowd grow merrier and louder.

Eirian danced with Gawain and Galahad, then with Tristan's second-in-command Dinadan, who managed to coax the first laugh of the evening out of her. She was snatched from Dinadan by Lancelot, who took the opportunity to practice politics, judging from the conniving expression on both their faces. She obliged some of her vassals, after which Bors hauled her across the dance floor without any regard for the music.

It was less conspicuous than before, but Tristan still detected a certain rigidness in her. And when her female guests left in the direction of her chambers, accompanied by encouragements from the men, her face completely froze. The women would prepare her bedroom for the wedding night, adding blessings and charms.

The festivities continued, but Tristan saw Eirian motion for a new cup of wine, which she grasped tightly in her hand. Clearly, she was not looking forward to the rest of the evening.

When the women returned, led by Guinevere, the crowd broke out in raucous cheering. They gathered around him and Eirian and led them to her chambers, spewing lewd advice along the way. He was pushed through the door after Eirian, glaring at Galahad, who made a last comment of absolute vulgarity.

Tristan shut the laughing crowd out by closing the door. Eirian had crossed the room and was now standing at the window, her back as straight as a rod, a hand clasping the sill so tightly that her knuckles had turned white. He sighed quietly; this was going to be a very long night.

A thoughtful servant had placed wine and refreshments on the table. "Drink?" he asked, expecting her to decline.

"Please," answered Eirian, not turning around.

He brought a cup over to her, and she took it without looking at him. He stood beside her, looking out over the small, secluded garden at the back of the villa, cursing Lancelot to hell and back for arranging this marriage. Eirian tipped her cup back and drank deeply. Tristan quirked an eyebrow, but did not comment.

She finished the heavy red wine quickly, coughing softly behind her hand. She stared into the cup for a moment, before walking to the table and refilling it. With slight amusement, Tristan watched her. It seemed that Eirian had adopted liquid courage as a strategy for her wedding night.

He observed her as she lingered at the table, obviously reluctant to return to the window and to him. He probably wouldn't need to strengthen his resolve with wine. Eirian was a young woman, not unpleasing to the eye now that she had shed her severe mourning clothes. Tristan didn't care much for her character, but in certain circumstances he was willing to overlook that. After all, she was his wife now. He might as well take all the pleasure out of this absurd marriage he could get.

Tristan's eyes wandered over her figure as he leaned back against the window sill. Her blue dress clung to her body and left much of her neck and shoulders free. She wore her veil pushed back far on her head, dark curling strands framing her face. Her mouth was tinged red by the wine. No, Tristan thought, this part of his marital duties would not be difficult to fulfil.

She glanced covertly at him.

It prompted him to push away from the window sill and walk over to her. He placed his cup on the table and took hers out of her hand, putting it next to his. He'd rather not consummate his marriage with an unconscious wife. A bit bemused, she looked at the cups and dropped her suddenly empty hand to her side. She was keeping her face averted from him.

An uncomfortable silence was growing between them, so Tristan decided to just get it over with. He wrapped his hand around the back of her neck and kissed her. A muffled sound escaped her and she pushed with both her hands against his chest. She stumbled backwards when he let go of her, eyes wide and face shocked. Whether it was shock over him daring to kiss her or shock over her own reaction, he didn't know.

Either way, thought Tristan angrily, it was more proof that this was going to be a disastrous marriage.

Eirian seemed to shrink further away from him. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "You caught me off-guard."

She was shaking, Tristan noticed, and what he saw in her face quenched any desire he might have conjured up. She was terrified. Tristan rather enjoyed seeing it in the faces of his enemies, but seeing it in the face of a woman he was supposed to make his wife really did nothing to help him along.

He stepped back. "You should get some sleep. It's been a long day."

Confusion marred her face for a moment, before it was flooded with relief. She quickly hid it behind a blank mask and nodded. With a wry smile, Tristan turned around to refill his cup. Gawain should be proud. He'd found a way to please his wife within hours after their marriage. All he had to do was stay away from her.

He glanced at the door, contemplating leaving, but rumours of their marriage not being valid would have devastating consequences. No, he was stuck here the rest of the night. What a wonderful start of his married life. Tristan entertained himself for a moment with the thought of the next sparring session between himself and Lancelot. The royal advisor was going to wish he'd never been born.

When he heard the rustle of sheets, he decided he'd shown his wife enough courtesy and turned around. Eirian had only pulled back the sheets. She was still dressed, though she had removed her slippers and veil and taken out the pins in her hair.

She looked at him unhappily. "I cannot take this dress off myself. Can you help me with the laces? I could call in the servants, but…"

Apparently she was thinking along the same lines as Tristan was. He nodded silently and strode over to her. Eirian pulled her hair over one shoulder and turned her back to him. His hands made quick work of the knots and he hooked his fingers in the laces to loosen them. The dress slid off her shoulder, drawing his eyes to its soft curve and the smooth line of her neck. Her skin was very fair and looked like silk. Tristan was not completely made of stone; his fingers itched to touch it. But he wouldn't get very far if she continued to push him away.

"Eirian," he said softly, tracing her skin along the neckline of the dress. She shivered. "What are you afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid of anything," she replied stubbornly.

"And I'm not blind."

He saw her stiffen. She looked over her shoulder, sad resignation in her eyes. "I know what people say about you. What you do to enemies, people you hate. And you hate me as well."

Gods, was that it? Was she honestly afraid of him and of what he would do to her? He knew what people said about him too, and seeing as most of it was true, he'd never been particularly bothered by it. His behaviour towards Eirian had probably reinforced the stories she'd heard about him, though he never would have guessed she'd been affected by it.

It appeared that he'd guessed wrong. "If my reputation worries you this much, why did you agree to marry me?"

"What choice did I have?" she shrugged. "Besides, your reputation is what is supposed to keep my lands safe. But it doesn't mean that I – "

"My reputation concerns the battlefield," he interrupted her. "This marriage is hardly that."

Her mocking smile mirrored his own thoughts. "I think that remains to be seen."

He placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her around. "Then we'll see." And right now, what he wanted to see was what she hid beneath her expensive, silken gown.

She stood very still, wary and apprehensive, when he bowed his head to capture her mouth.

She tasted of the wine they had just drunk. After a while, she began to respond hesitantly, pressing her own lips more firmly against his. Carefully he traced his tongue along her bottom lip, slowly deepening the kiss when she opened her mouth for him. He could tell she was merely complying, but it was a start.

He slid his hands from her shoulders down her arms and to her waist, mindful not to grab her too tightly. In the back of his mind he realised he was treating her like a frightened virgin, which she most definitely was not, but he'd rather not see that fear of him return, so he shrugged it off.

He took his time in exploring the moist recesses of her mouth, until he felt her hands on his chest again, though this time she wasn't trying to push him away. He pulled her dress down to bare more of her shoulders, and pressed his lips against the underside of her jaw. Eirian sighed, tilting her head back.

With the help of a few little tugs, Tristan let the dress pool around her feet, leaving her only in a thin shift. He felt her tense, but continued to kiss her until she relaxed again.

He took a chance and broke their kiss to pull his tunic and shirt over his head, tossing them to the floor. Eirian's face revealed very little, but her eyes roamed over his chest, lingering on scars here and there. Carefully, she stretched out one hand and touched the most prominent one across his chest.

"Saxon," he answered the silent question.

"So many," she replied softly, letting her fingers trail along the raised tissue.

"Aye, there were many Saxons that day," he replied dryly.

She looked up to his face with a reproving look.

"Come here, Eirian," he said, wrapping his fingers around the hand that was still touching his chest. His body reacted strongly when he saw her lips parting and he leaned over for another taste, pulling her closer to him. This time she responded more readily to him, and snaked a hand around the back of his neck.

Tristan slid his hands down her back and cupped her backside, pushing her hips into his. She pulled her mouth away from his, her eyes flicking up to his. Before he could loosen his grip on her hips, though, she surprised him by resuming the kiss, angling her head and weaving her fingers through his hair, seeking out his tongue with her own. His breath left him forcefully through his nose and Tristan pressed her more strongly against him, deepening the kiss she had initiated even further.

He let his hands drift back up her body and hooked them in the loose neckline of her shift, pulling it down over her arms and hips. Eirian didn't stop him, though she held her arms in front of her chest once they were free of the shift.

Tristan pushed them away and skimmed the underside of her breasts with his fingers, teasing the sensitive skin of her ribs, before moving back and letting his thumbs draw circles over her nipples. His ministrations kept her at a small distance and he took the opportunity to take in the small waist, the generous curve of her hips and the smooth, fair thighs beneath. Thighs that he had no trouble imagining wrapped around his hips.

Eirian's breath hitched when he rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. The pressure inside his trousers increased even further. Claiming her mouth once again, he walked her backwards to the bed, leaning over her immediately once she sat down and covering her body with his.

He pushed his knee between her thighs, keeping most of his weight on his elbow. It had been a long time since he'd been this careful in bedding a woman, he thought idly. Slowly he let his hand glide past her breasts, to her navel and over the slight curve of her belly.

Eirian held her breath, stiffening slightly, but not so much that he deemed it necessary to stop. He slipped his finger past her folds to find the little nub that would hopefully extract more reaction than the demureness he had mostly seen, and which he thought was entirely uncharacteristic of her.

She gave a surprised gasp when his finger flicked over it and grabbed his arm. As he continued his caresses, he looked up to her face to see it twist in pleasure, but it was battling with confusion. Her grip on his arm tightened. "Wait," she said in a high-strung voice. "Wait, what are you doing?"

It was a very unexpected question, one he thought the answer to which was very obvious. He let a few possibilities cross his mind and decided on, "I am making you my wife."

Annoyance flickered in her eyes for a moment and she replied tartly, "I know that." Finally, something of the Eirian he was used to. But then she blushed. "I expected… I thought you were going… that you would have me."

He raised an eyebrow. "I am having you."

The blush spread to her neck and chest. "I meant…" She looked away from him.

It dawned on Tristan what exactly she meant. She'd been married at fourteen, still a girl. She'd had no mother to tell her about what a marriage entailed. He cleared his throat. This was not a conversation he'd expected to be having with his previously widowed wife. "Ifan never… did this?"

She was positively turning dark red now. "No."

He should have realised this, he supposed. All the rumours about Ifan indicated that he'd not had the slightest interest in his young wife, nor she in him. Ifan had probably just done his duty, sought his release, and Eirian hadn't known any better.

He didn't think her reaction was an act, but Gods, had Rhodri never – ? He cut off that thought immediately, knowing that if he voiced it now, he would doom this marriage on its first night. Rhodri was a conversation for another time.

He lowered his head and kissed her again. She sighed and slowly began to respond again, wrapping her arms around his neck. When his fingers began moving again, she gave a soft gasp, rolling her hips. Tristan pressed his lips against her collarbone, before he took her nipple in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the hardened bud.

A louder gasp was quickly swallowed halfway, before it could grow into a moan. Still so demure and held back, he thought, though now she did thread her fingers tightly in his hair, exploring the lines and ridges of his shoulders and back with the other. Tristan wanted more reaction from her. He didn't quite understand why, but his blood seethed at the idea of pulling apart the cool façade she always employed and have _this_ woman moaning _his_ name.

Slowly he trailed his lips down to her navel, where he could feel her muscles quivering under her warm skin. Her hips jerked involuntarily when he left a soft bite in the soft flesh beneath her navel. Tristan had to stifle a groan and he pressed a kiss against her hipbone.

When his breath ghosted over the juncture of her legs, Eirian hissed sharply in surprise and shot away from him like an arrow, kicking him in the ribs as she crawled away on the bed, drawing her legs to her chest.

"What are you doing?" she asked warily.

Seeing the confusion and apprehension on her face made him even more determined to have his way. He slid his hand around her ankle and tugged her gently but firmly towards him. He pulled her knees apart and lay between them, leaning on his elbows to kiss her. "Am I hurting you?" he asked after he'd lifted his head, making sure to roll his hips into hers.

He saw her pupils dilate before she closed her eyes, softly answering, "No."

He slid down her body again, using his weight to keep her in place. "Tristan," started Eirian nervously, propping herself up on her elbows. "Tristan, I don't think – "

Her words were lost in a choked moan when his mouth descended on her sensitive flesh. "Oh God, oh _God_," he heard her whisper, her upper body falling backwards onto the pillows.

Tristan closed his lips around the bundle of nerves and felt her thighs tremble around him in response. She was holding back no longer, he noted with approval, and he had to place his underarm over her belly to keep her in place, as he tasted every part of her leisurely.

He slid a finger into her, groaning with pleasure at the heat and the feel of her clenching around him. He continued to tease her with his fingers and tongue until there was nothing but sobs and moans leaving her lips. Her hips were writhing, desperate for release. Taking pity on her, Tristan pressed hard against her with his tongue and twisted and curled his fingers inside her.

Eirian stopped breathing, suddenly completely silent. Tristan felt her muscles tense as her release crashed over her, finally tearing a scream from her. At least the servants had something to gossip about, he though, pleased. Slowly she relaxed again, taking a deep, shuddering breath.

He slipped off the bed while she lay there, eyes closed and trying to regain her breath, and stepped out his boots and trousers, relieving the aching pressure on his groin. Seeing her lie there, more than ready for him, sent a renewed spike of lust down his body. Tristan put one knee on the bed, sliding his hands up the insides of her legs to accommodate him, and pulled her hips closer to him. Leaning over her, he buried himself inside her slick warmth with one thrust.

Eirian groaned, her eyes flying wide open. Despite the onslaught on his nerves, Tristan paused, giving her time to adjust. He pressed his lips against her neck, trying to breathe steadily, but his control slipped when she whispered near his ear, "Oh God, please move."

He pulled back and with a growl slammed his hips back into her. She moaned and held on to his shoulders. "Again," she panted and he complied, settling into a powerful rhythm. Her hands glided down his back to his backside, taking a firm hold.

Those hands urging him on, her gasping breath on his neck, her hips rising upwards to welcome him each time, it all sent a fiery trail down his spine, and he sped up, working towards his own much-needed release. He felt her tighten around him, and knowing she was not far behind him, he brought a hand down between their bodies to stroke her.

Her body bucked into him in response and the sound of her voice crying out his name before she came, her inner muscles squeezing him, sent Tristan over the edge as well.

He rolled off her onto his back to catch his breath, wiping his sweat-soaked hair from his forehead. He looked to the side, to where Eirian lay as he had left her, now with a hand over her eyes as her chest still heaved, and he spotted the dark mark on her neck with satisfaction. There would be no mistaking that mark tomorrow. This marriage was valid. She was his.


	12. Road to Camelot

**Road to Camelot**

It was still very early when Eirian woke up, a sheen of perspiration on her body. For a moment she didn't understand why it was so warm, but then she became acutely aware of the body next to her and the arm resting on her belly. Tristan was sleeping on his stomach, his face obscured by his black hair, his underarm thrown loosely over her body.

Flashes of the night before made her so uncomfortable that she stealthily slid out from under his arm, and stepped out of bed, hoping he would not wake. She glanced at Tristan's bare back, uncovered by blankets. Even in that relaxed pose, Eirian could see the outlines of his muscles, lean and wiry and hard. It looked exactly the same as it had felt, under her hands and pressed against her so intimately.

Blinking, she shook her head to rid herself of the images, but it was futile. They were burnt into her mind. It had been so very different from her experiences with Ifan, which she had only wanted to be over as soon as possible. But last night… Her mind immediately recollected how she had encouraged him, his muscles flexing under her fingers, her breasts rubbing against his chest, the push of his hips against hers, and the feeling of being filled over and over again.

With an undignified squeak, Eirian turned away from him, and threw on the shift that lay where she had stepped out of it before being pushed onto the bed by Tristan, after which he… "Oh God," she muttered and hurried out of the bedroom into her sitting room.

She woke Bethyn up, who sat up on her pallet sleepily. "My lady?" she yawned. "Have I overslept?"

"No," answered Eirian. "It's still early. Can you get a bath ready for me? There is a lot to do before we can leave for Camelot."

"Yes, my lady." Bethyn rose and shuffled into the hallway, grumbling about the ungodly hour her mistress had woken her.

Eirian was too distracted to notice and waited impatiently for her bath to be prepared. While her maids helped her wash, there was an endless stream of commands spilling from her lips, keeping her mind occupied so she would not have to think about the previous night. Once dressed, her hair pinned up, she went to check if her luggage was complete, whether Tegwen was up and dressed, and had a short meeting with her _majordomus_ to run by the most important affairs that had to be handled while she was away.

She was leaving her advisor, Ithel, in charge, and Rhodri would oversee the protection of her lands as usual. To lessen the tension between him and Tristan, she had already sent him away with his orders a few days ago, so that was all taken care of, and after she finished a meeting with Ithel, she had nothing left to do.

She broke fast with her sister, and having successfully avoided Tristan since waking, she went to the atrium, ready to say goodbye to some of her wedding guests, who would not be joining the caravan to Camelot.

Rhodri was waiting in the atrium.

"What are you doing here? Are there problems at the border?" she fired at him, worried instantly.

"No," answered Rhodri. "I received a summons last night to be here by morning."

"From whom?" asked Eirian.

Rhodri's jaw tightened. "From his lordship."

"What?" she snapped. "_Tristan_ bade you come here? Why?"

"I don't know," shrugged Rhodri. His eyes travelled from her face to her neck and lingered there. After a moment, he averted his gaze. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she replied curtly.

"Did he – " Rhodri snapped his mouth suddenly shut and made a bow.

Eirian turned on her heel, seeing Tristan approach from behind.

"My lord," she heard Rhodri mumble. She couldn't bring herself to speak, sending a vitriolic glare instead.

Tristan's dark eyes flicked between her and Rhodri and back, gliding down her face towards her neck, just as Rhodri's had done. He allowed a distinct look of satisfaction to grace his face, which made her very self-conscious. What on earth were those two staring at? She glanced at Rhodri, who seemed ready to burst.

Tristan's features rearranged themselves into a stern mask when he turned to Rhodri. "Follow me."

Eirian's voice lashed out like a whip. "Wait!"

Her husband raised an inquiring eyebrow at her, unmoved by her tone.

"What is this about?" she demanded.

"The defence of Caer Brannum during my absence," he answered.

Eirian raised her hackles immediately. "_Your_ absence?" she hissed. "I already took care of that days ago."

Tristan's face remained so impassive that she wanted to hit him. "We'll see."

"Excuse me?" she sputtered. "Do you think that you know better than me how to protect Caer Brannum? I have lived here –"

"I think," said Tristan, cutting her off, "that you need to concern yourself with your guests." He nodded at three cheerful vassals, who came strolling towards them. Eirian plastered a friendly expression on her face and greeted her guests.

She turned to Tristan with a sickly sweet smile. "We will discuss this later." She inquired if her vassals were ready for departure and if they had breakfasted yet, turning her back resolutely to her husband and her commander, even though her blood was boiling.

She told herself off for reacting so heatedly, but this had been exactly what she had feared all along. So much for Lancelot's reassurances that Tristan would be too busy with his duties at Camelot to interfere at Caer Brannum. That insufferable man had started interfering the day after his marriage. Eirian huffed, thinking of the summons. In fact, he had started interfering on his marriage day itself.

"Lady Eirian?"

"Do forgive me, I was a little distracted," she apologized. She forced herself to pay attention to the exchange of pleasantries, though utterly determined not to let the matter of interference rest.

Soon after, Rhodri was on his way back to the border again, and Eirian, without having had the opportunity to finish her conversation with him, was in the courtyard, ready to leave. She ignored the organized chaos around her, men shouting orders, women chatting and laughing as they were helped into saddles or carriages, dogs barking, and servants running about to fetch forgotten things and fastening saddle girdles and stirrups.

Tristan sauntered out of the villa, heading towards his horse. He took the reins from a waiting stable hand and swung himself in the saddle with a perfected ease that spoke of decades of experience. Eirian glared at him out of the corner of her eye, and flopped in the saddle with decidedly less elegance. She winced when muscles gone unused until last night protested against this rough treatment.

Hissing softly, she shifted her hips, but the leather of her saddle remained unyieldingly firm. She eyed the carriage that would bring Olwen, her late mother's aunt, home with interest. She could join her and escape the saddle for most of the day.

As she looked up, she spotted the smirk on Tristan's face. Muttering a very foul word under her breath, she resolved immediately not to give in and ride in the carriage. Very covertly, she put her weight on the stirrups, hoping to alleviate the discomfort.

Not covertly enough. Bors, already mounted, steered his horse past Tristan, thumped him enthusiastically on the back and bellowed out something in that barbaric language of theirs. Several more heads turned her way, each of them wearing a distinctly male grin.

Tristan parried with a comment in the same, incomprehensible language, resulting in an outburst of laughter. Bors snorted, threw a rude gesture Tristan's way, and spurred his horse.

Her cheeks glowing with embarrassment, Eirian sent Tristan a withering look. A few hours later, well on the road, she saw her chance as Tristan let himself fall back in the column to ride next to her.

"How are you?" he asked, after she had maintained a baleful silence for a while.

She whipped her head towards him. "I am _fine_," she hissed. "Why should you care, other than to boast about it to your vulgar friends?"

"Boast?"

"Do not take me for a fool, Tristan," she continued heatedly. "I might not understand a word of your barbaric language, but I know damn well what was said in my courtyard. You are disgusting, speaking about such private things as if I were a whore."

Tristan leaned over and grabbed her reins, leading her horse and his own out of the column and off the road. "Get off," he demanded.

"No."

Gawain rode past them. "All right there?" he called.

"Fine," called Tristan back. "We'll catch up."

Gawain nodded and trotted on. Tristan led them further away from the road, out of view of the column. He dismounted and, without any fuss, grabbed her arm and pulled her down from her horse. Eirian hopped ungainly on one leg, until she could free her foot from her stirrup.

"What do you think you're doing?" she exclaimed, jerking her arm free of Tristan's grasp.

"You will refrain from starting arguments in front of our men," he told her.

Eirian gaped at him. "_Our_ men? My men!"

Tristan growled and stepped closer to her. "Our men. The sooner you learn that, the better. I will not tolerate you undermining me."

"You have some nerve!" shouted Eirian. "After the way you humiliated me in front of _our men_!" Her last two words were accompanied by a sneer.

"I don't know what you think I said to Bors, but all I told him was that he ought to spend more time trying to satisfy his own wife, so it would improve her temper and lessen his need to stick his nose into my affairs."

Eirian stared at him for a moment, her anger deflating rapidly. She pressed her lips tightly together to hide the tell-tale twitch of amusement. "You said that?"

"You perhaps missed his response?" replied Tristan drily.

"No," she said, remembering Bors's hand gesture clearly. She struggled a moment longer, then gave up and laughed. "That was very rude of you."

Tristan stared down his sharp nose at her. "Not as rude as what he said."

"What did he say?"

"That it looked like I'd done my best and that I should try to pound some obedience into you while I'm at it."

The smile slid straight from her face again. "Obedience?" she hissed ominously. "_Obedience_? Hah! You can try all you want, but do not think that I..." Her voice trailed off at the sight of his raised eyebrow. It hit her what she'd said. "I meant..."

"All I want? I intend to."

Eirian's face flushed a bright red. She looked away from him, his smirking mouth a vivid reminder of what he'd done with it the night before. "We should head back," she said, cursing the unsteadiness of her voice.

"We have time."

Before she could form a reply, his lips were on hers and he pulled her towards him by her hips. Eirian stiffened, her hands gripping his sleeves. Tristan's mouth moved coaxingly over hers, undeterred by her frozen state. Eirian's initial shock wore off, and with a compliant sigh she returned the kiss.

It was quite unfortunate that Tristan knew exactly what he was doing, she thought. Even more unfortunate that her response was quite different from any Ifan had ever incited. All this made things infinitely more complicated. Uncomplicated would be better. Not responding to Tristan would keep things uncomplicated. Although it would be so much easier to not respond to him if last night hadn't been so... so... Something inside her clenched pleasurably at the memory.

With a moan she opened her mouth for him. Tristan delved in, kissing her so thoroughly and insistently that she realized he must have held himself back a great deal on their wedding night. This was very different, but she could certainly not call it unpleasant. He pressed her more tightly against him, his hands firmly cupped around her backside. For a moment, Eirian forgot to think, her mind occupied with only the feel of his body against hers and the tickling of his beard against her skin, his tongue deep in her mouth.

Then he broke the kiss and stepped back. "Back on your horse."

Slightly dazed, she looked up at him. "You're the one who dragged me off it," she muttered then, turning around and putting a foot in the stirrup. Her eyes widened when Tristan's hands returned to her backside, but all he did was help her up. "I can do that myself," she said tartly, adjusting the reins in her hands.

Tristan stared at her pensively. "Maybe not obedience, but at least I know how to shut you up."

As he walked to his own horse, Eirian's reply was succinct. "Bastard."

* * *

The return journey to Camelot was as quiet and uneventful as the ride to Caer Brannum had been, but as they neared Camelot it became clear a lot of people were on the road. It seemed their arrival at Camelot coincided with the arrival of several guests for the feast Lancelot had planned for the following night. The courtyard was very crowded. As Tristan helped Eirian down from her horse –he heard her muffle a groan – he spotted Vincentius, one of the quarrelling lords who would be dealt with during this gathering.

At least one of them was sensible enough to heed Arthur's orders and show up. Tristan wondered whether Vincentius's rival, Cadoc, would come too. If he did not, Tristan would probably spend the rest of the summer at the border between the two lords' lands, putting Cadoc back in his place.

Tristan turned his attention to Tegwen, who was waiting patiently for his assistance in dismounting. "Thank you," she said loftily after he had set her on her feet. Tristan's mouth twitched in amusement. The girl was very obviously trying to behave according to her station. Eirian had probably threatened her with hell and damnation if she behaved in her usual unconcerned and unrestrained manner at Camelot.

Arthur and Guinevere were greeting their guests, Gawain was giving orders to the men, and servants were unloading baggage and escorting guests into the fort. Tristan looked for his second-in-command, but Dinadan was nowhere in sight.

"Tristan! You sly dog!" he heard behind him. He turned around, facing a laughing Vanora. "Is it true, what Galahad told me?"

Vanora, soon to become a grandmother, was still a sight to behold. Her figure was still curved, her hair still a thick, tumbling mass of auburn hair, and her face still smooth, her age showing only in the crinkles around her eyes and a few lines around her mouth.

"I do not know what your son-in-law tells you, though I doubt it is anything sensible," replied Tristan.

"You went and got yourself a wife!" said Vanora. "Where is she?"

Tristan looked around for Eirian and saw her some distance away, conversing with Vincentius. He pushed Tegwen in front of him instead and said, "Her sister, Tegwen, and I see my wife herself practising politics over there."

Slightly – or perhaps not so slightly – irritated with Eirian, he stalked over there to remove her from Vincentius's presence. As long as it was undecided whether Vincentius or Cadoc was in the right, Tristan preferred Caer Brannum to remain uninvolved in their border dispute.

"Vincentius," he nodded at the lord, then turned to Eirian. "I want to introduce you to someone. Vincentius, excuse my wife."

Tristan did not miss the annoyed look Eirian sent him, nor did he miss Vincentius's gaping mouth. "Wife?" sputtered the lord.

"Ah, yes, how remiss of me," purred Eirian, unfazed. "We were wed a few days ago."

"How... unexpected," replied Vincentius feebly. He inclined his head at Tristan. "My lord."

Tristan returned the nod uncomfortably. Another new status to get used to.

"I hope we can continue our conversation later, Vincentius," said Eirian.

"Of course," replied the lord.

Having had enough, Tristan placed his hand around Eirian's elbow and steered her away. "Until his border dispute is settled, you will not be continuing your conversation with Vincentius," said Tristan.

"You cannot forbid me to speak to people," she replied.

Comforted by the thought that he could always lock her in her room if she did not obey him, Tristan did not feel the need to enter into a discussion about this subject.

He introduced her to Vanora, and her daughter, Fflur, the one married to Galahad. Eirian exchanged pleasantries with them, but kept it short, as it was obvious that the heavily pregnant Fflur was exhausted from her journey.

Another woman had stepped out of the carriage Fflur had travelled in, and was now ordering two boys down from their ponies, who were protesting loudly. The lady, a small and frail-looking woman, stared them down with an imperious glare, until they were grumbling and pouting, making to dismount as slowly as they could.

Suddenly, Tristan whistled sharply through his teeth and the boys nearly tumbled down in their hurry to obey. They ran towards them, the oldest of the two calling, "Tristan! We rode all the way here. We didn't rest in the carriage once."

The younger boy, no older than five, nodded his tawny head vigorously. The hair, the eyes, even the smiles... They were copies of their father, Gawain. Their mother followed them at a more sedate pace.

"Tristan," she smiled. "Who would have thought?"

Tristan returned the smile, though he did not comment. "Eirian, this is Ragnell, Gawain's wife. Ragnell, this is Eirian."

Ragnell extended a dainty hand, squeezing Eirian's. "I'm delighted." She glared at her sons again. "Manners," she told them threateningly.

The boys presented themselves with a bow. "It is a pleasure to meet you, lady Eirian," said the eldest. "My name is Gingalin. This is my brother Lovell."

Lovell looked peeved. "I can say my own name," he muttered.

Fighting a smile, Eirian replied, "It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance, young sirs. I hope the long days in the saddle have not made you tired."

Gingalin scoffed, earning himself another chastising from his mother. Ragnell sighed, "They are Sarmatian, lady Eirian. My husband put them in the saddle before they could walk properly." After a fleeting smile in Tristan's direction, she added, "With God's blessing, you will find out for yourself very soon."

Eirian coughed. "Yes, well… In the meantime, young sir Lovell who can say his own name, will you do me the honour of escorting me inside?"

Lovell contemplated this for a moment. "Can I go back outside after?"

"You may discuss that with your mother."

Lovell turned hopefully towards Ragnell, who sighed and answered, "Yes, you may."

"Where do I have to take her?" asked the boy.

"My chambers," answered Tristan.

Eirian had to fumble for her skirts with one hand when Lovell grabbed her other and nearly ran inside the fort.

Ragnell hooked her arm around Tristan's and, after giving her eldest son a little push in the direction of the entrance, allowed Tristan to lead her inside. "Gawain is still with the men?" she asked.

"Aye," replied Tristan. "Should be done soon."

"And are you going to tell me what this is all about?" she continued.

"All about?"

Ragnell sent him a shrewd look from the corner of her eye. "Please, Tristan. Such a hasty marriage is not like you. Either you have got yourself into a right fix by acquainting yourself more closely with a widow than you should have – resulting in a so-called early-born babe in a few months..."

"You do think very highly of me, don't you?" he riposted, amused.

"I think very highly of you indeed," replied Ragnell unperturbedly, "but you're also still a man."

Tristan snorted. "I promise you I have not behaved untoward." Not very often anyway.

Ragnell shrugged her frail shoulders. "Then Lancelot has been scheming, though I do not know for what purpose and why you have lent yourself for it."

"I have done my part in keep war from our lands."

Unimpressed by his haughty words, she raised an eyebrow. "You? You have let Lancelot marry you off? For political reasons?"

"Aye, I have let Lancelot marry me off," said Tristan, matching Ragnell's dry tone, "just like Gawain let himself be married off. To you."

"Well," said Ragnell, not acknowledging the dig, "Gawain and I were lucky. And he is a much more pleasant man than you are."

Tristan grinned at her. "I won't contest that. But what does it have to do with my marriage?"

"Everything. You say your marriage is Lancelot's doing, that you are doing your duty to the kingdom. You don't like being made to do what you don't like to do." Ragnell studied him with scrutinizing brown eyes. "Is your wife going to pay for that?"

"She was just as eager to step into this marriage as I was, so I think we can come to an arrangement."

Ragnell was silent while they climbed a flight of stairs, finally nearing Gawain's and Tristan's chambers.

She sighed when they reached the top. "Does she know?"

"Know what?" frowned Tristan.

"Does Eirian know why, at your age, you were still so conveniently unmarried?"

"That's not any of her business," answered Tristan. In a warning voice he added, "Or yours."

"Still..."

"Leave it be, Ragnell."

"As you wish."


	13. A Toast to Marriage

**A/N: Hi everyone! I'm sorry you've had to wait so long for an update, but work and school combined have left me with very little spare time. I won't discontinue this fic, no worries, it's all squeezed into my head. I just need to find the time to write it all out. **

**I hope you will enjoy this chapter. Love, WoE**

* * *

**A Toast to Marriage**

Tegwen was fully installed in her chamber in Camelot. While her maid was unpacking, she had wandered around the hallways for a while to find her way around. If she stepped out of her room and went left, then right at the end of the corridor, then left again at the first opportunity, she came to the hallway where the rooms of the royal knights were – and her sister, who would be staying in Tristan's room, naturally.

She herself was lodged in one of the guest rooms, and next to her several rooms were filled with people she had never seen before. Now, more importantly, if she went left at the end of the guest corridor instead of right towards her sister, and walked all the way to the end of it, she came to a great hall. It was spacious, with a great hearth at both ends and the walls covered with banners and tapestries. In the middle of it, a round table was set, spanning nearly the entire width of the room.

The hall itself was empty, though the corridors were crowded with arriving guests, scullery maids, servants and what seemed to be half of Arthur's military force. Tegwen had returned to her room for a moment, but dull as watching her maid arrange the room was, she left again, in search of other unexplored hallways.

She found the kitchens fairly easily, following her nose, but stepped outside again quickly, because the kitchen staff was hurrying to prepare for the feast that evening and she didn't dare to ask for something to eat. She wandered around some more, through small corridors and wide hallways, some made of stone, some of wood, connected by arched doorways or oak doors so low even she had to duck to get through them.

Tegwen had another look at the great hall, which was really very grand in her opinion, and then followed a narrow corridor back into the bowels of the great fort. Storage room after storage room she encountered, and just when she thought she was lost, she leaped up a short stairs and found herself in the knights' hallway. A few of the doors were open and she peeked inside. These rooms were much smaller than Tristan's room was. Tegwen assumed that these rooms belonged to the younger knights. Tristan's room was at the other end.

She quickened her pace, hoping to find her sister still there. A door banged open and two young boys nearly ran her over. "Sorry!" the taller one yelled over his shoulder, but he did not slow down, disappearing around the far corner a mere moment later. "Lovell, wait!" she heard him shout.

"I think we should put them on a leash," she heard a man say from the room the boys had come from and a tinkling laughter in reply. The king's commander stepped outside and spotted her. "Lady Tegwen," he greeted her. "Are you looking for your sister?"

"Yes, but I know where her room is," answered Tegwen, and pointed at a door a little further on.

"Ah, good," he said. "I will see you at the feast tonight, I think." With a nod, Gawain closed the door.

At that moment, a group of knights turned the corner and headed down the hallway towards her. They were quite young, talking and laughing vociferously. Two of them nudged each other with their elbow as they spotted her.

"Why, hello there," said one of them. Tegwen saw that he was only a few years older than her, but he was armed like a warrior nonetheless. His face split into a quick and easy grin and he shook his jet black hair from his face. "You're not lost, are you? All alone in the knights' corridor. That could be dangerous."

Tegwen frowned. "I think I can manage myself."

"Really?" said his companion, who was about the same age, only with a much lighter skin tone and curly brown hair. "Where do you need to be then?"

"I don't see how that's any of your business," she retorted huffily.

"Well, it is, actually," said the darker one, attempting a serious face. "You see, we are knights and we have vowed to protect the King's people."

Tegwen folded her arms. "If you are knights and you have sworn to protect the King's people… and I am in the _knights'_ corridor… how could I be in danger then?"

"The lady makes a fair point," admitted the brown-haired one readily.

Tegwen snorted and put her hands in her side. "I do not believe you are knights at all. King Arthur would never allow such stupid boys to sit at the Round Table!"

"Ah, she has shot an arrow through my heart!" exclaimed the black-haired boy, grasping his tunic with one hand and closing his eyes tightly.

"Oh no, is it mortal?" gasped his companion in mock fear.

The young knight opened one eye to glare. "It is an arrow through the _heart_, Lucan. Aye, I am mortally wounded by the young lady."

Tegwen rolled her eyes and began to walk away. The two young knights followed her and stepped in her path again. "Get out of my way!"

"Will you please tell us your name, lady of the sharp words?" said Lucan.

"Tegwen," she answered. "Of Caer Brannum."

Their eyes widened comically. "Would that be the same Caer Brannum that Tristan the knight has acquired recently?" asked Lucan.

"Yes."

"Ah, you know him?" exclaimed the black-haired one. "Then perhaps you can tell us if his mood has improved any now that he is a happily married man who has the richest lands of the kingdom in his possession?"

"Why would you want to know that?" wondered Tegwen.

The boy shrugged. "I might have caused a tiny problem on a mission before he left for Caer Brannum."

Lucan smirked. "And dear Gwilyam here would like to know if it's safe to come near our most infamous knight yet."

"Well, I could ask," drawled Tegwen, narrowing her eyes into glittering blue slits. "He is my brother-in-law."

The boys stared at her in silence.

"Bugger," Gwilyam then said.

"Quite," agreed Lucan.

Tegwen gave them a friendly smile. "Are you getting out of my way now?"

"Excuse us, we'll go bother someone else."

"Aye, I think we will," nodded Lucan.

"Gwilyam, Lucan, come on!" called one of the other young knights, who were all waiting further down the hall.

The two boys dashed down the corridor to their friends. Lucan turned around one more time and grinned at Tegwen. "If your sister looks anything like you, lady of the sharp words, then I understand why Tristan married her."

"Shh!" hissed Gwilyam, cuffing Lucan on the head. "You'll get us in trouble with Tristan!"

"You're in trouble with him. I'm not!"

Tegwen rolled her eyes once more for good measure and turned her back on them. She moved over to Tristan and Eirian's door and rapped her knuckles quickly on the solid wood. Her sister's maid Bethyn opened the door and let her in. Eirian smiled when she saw her. "Tegwen, are you settled in yet?"

Eirian was holding up a dark blue gown, examining the embroidery. "Yes, I will wear this one tonight." She handed the gown over to Bethyn. "Can you get the creases out?"

She looked at Tegwen. "What do you think of Camelot?"

"It's larger than I expected."

Eirian laughed. "I thought the same."

The door to the bedchamber opened and Tristan came out, keeping his boots in his hand. He gave Tegwen a nod, and then sat down to pull his boots on.

Tegwen had noticed her sister's smile slipping when the knight had come in, and now he didn't seem to pay any attention to Eirian. Tegwen sighed. It was truly beyond her why those two had married each other.

It wasn't that she disliked Tristan, not at all, in fact. He'd saved her neck and he'd been nothing but polite to her. But she wasn't a fool. She knew how much he disliked her sister, and she knew even better how much her sister detested Tristan. Tegwen had overheard some of the things Eirian had said about him, and her sister had used some words that Tegwen was sure their father wouldn't have approved of.

But it was done, and there was no helping it now. Tegwen knew Eirian had had no other options, but it still seemed unfair that Eirian was obliged to make a second unhappy marriage.

Tristan stood, spared Eirian barely a glance, and then left.

"Are you having a fight?" Tegwen asked her sister.

"Why would you say that?" replied Eirian, not looking at her.

"Because you didn't speak to each other," answered Tegwen, her tone implying that they couldn't have been more obvious.

Eirian's jaw clenched. "Tristan feels that I should not be speaking to Vincentius, because of the border dispute he is involved in."

"Why would you be angry about that?"

Her sister's face darkened even further. "Because he made his opinion clear by forbidding me to speak to him."

"Oh." Tegwen fiddled with her sleeves. "And what did you say to that?"

"I told him he couldn't _forbid_ me to talk to people, of course."

"I see."

"And then, when I brought the subject back up, he told me if I would not obey, he would confine me to my rooms and make sure I couldn't speak to anybody at all."

"I'm sure he was just jesting," said Tegwen.

"Tegwen, my dear, I know that you like him, but that man has not an ounce of humour in his body," sighed Eirian. "He was not jesting. And I should not bait him, I know that too, but he is impossible."

"Well, to be fair, you didn't marry him for his humour, did you?" remarked Tegwen sharply. "You married him to keep Caer Brannum away from war, and isn't that what he is doing by keeping you away from Vincentius's fight?"

Eirian stared at her. "Perhaps," she admitted. "Though it doesn't give him the right to threaten to lock me up."

"It does. He is your husband," deadpanned Tegwen.

"I know that," spat Eirian. "Don't remind me."

"Fine," Tegwen sulked and folded her arms demonstratively across her chest.

Eirian sighed. "It don't want to argue with you as well, Tegwen."

"Well, I just don't understand why you must make such a large problem out of one request Tristan makes!" exclaimed Tegwen.

"A _request_?" repeated Eirian, her eyebrows raising so high they nearly disappeared into her hairline. "How lovely you put it, sister. The reason I am disinclined to heed Tristan's _request_ is because Vincentius was always close to our father, and therefore one of the few lords who might be an ally to us. Caer Brannum is not so secure that it can afford to snub a potential friend."

"What of Cadoc?" asked Tegwen. "Can you afford to snub him by taking Vincentius's side? He is the other party in the dispute, no?"

Eirian gave her a baffled look. "You are better informed than I thought, sister."

Tegwen shrugged. "I know how to use my ears."

"Right," chuckled Eirian. "Eavesdropping. Well, since you have heard so much, I'm sure you've realized that Cadoc's lands are not only further away from Caer Brannum than Vincentius's lands, they are also much smaller and therefore a considerably smaller threat to us than Vincentius could be. That is why I am taking Vincentius's side."

"Well, why don't you say so to Tristan?" retorted Tegwen, sounding exasperated.

"I did," said her sister. "He is of the opinion that Caer Brannum should stay neutral, so any allies Cadoc might have will not look upon Caer Brannum with ill will. He thinks we should take no one's side and let the protection of the King's army be our ally."

Tegwen studied her sister's thunderous face. "Isn't that… sensible as well?" she inquired hesitantly.

"Of course it is," grumbled Eirian. "Until we lose the protection of the King and then we are all alone!"

"Why would we lose the protection of the King?" asked Tegwen, flabbergasted.

"Who knows?" said Eirian heatedly. "He might change his mind, he might die… and if we don't have any allies by then, we are done for."

"But…"

"I married Tristan to buy us time, to give us protection so that we could make Caer Brannum as strong as it was when father ruled it. If Tristan doesn't allow me to form ties to the other lords, if he keeps us isolated…" Eirian let out a cry of wordless frustration. "I should never have married him!"

"You shouldn't get so upset," scolded Tegwen. "You _are_ married now. You can't help it. Doesn't Ithel always tell you to work with what you have?"

Eirian rolled her eyes. "I am being chastised by my thirteen-year-old sister. And I deserve it. God help me."

Tegwen grinned. "Nearly fourteen. And I think I am doing rather well. Do you suppose Ithel would make me his junior advisor? Then I could advise him on how to advise you."

"And you'd do a fine job of it," smiled Eirian. "But I'd rather have you advise me directly. It seems that my dislike for my husband sometimes clouds my rationality."

Tegwen quickly turned a snort into a cough. "You don't say."

Her sister pointed a finger at her. "What you said is true. I need to work with what I have. I have no choice but to listen to Tristan about this matter, or he will confine me to my chambers, I have no doubt. I will not approach Vincentius until the border dispute is settled, so as not to compromise Caer Brannum's neutrality. But once it is settled, Tristan has no reason to stop me from forming an alliance with Vincentius."

"Of course," nodded Tegwen, but only half-heartedly. "Can you please try not to fight so much with him, though? You've been married for all but three days and already you are not speaking to each other. It's making me nervous."

"I will try," acquiesced Eirian, but the defiant gleam in her sister's eye did not give Tegwen much hope.

* * *

Having escaped his nagging wife, Tristan decided to look for his second-in-command, but Dinadan was busy planning patrols, so they agreed to have an inspection of their troops the next day. Tristan found his oldest companions seated around a table in the corner of the soldiers' dining hall.

"Tris, come join us," shouted Bors. "We are reminiscing."

"Any reason why?" inquired Tristan, a bit wary.

"Because we are getting old," grinned Bors. Apparently that was no source of anxiety for Bors, as he merrily lifted his cup at the scout and drank heartily.

Galahad glared at his father-in-law. "Speak for yourself," he protested.

Tristan sighed, but sat down on the wooden bench next to Lancelot, allowing a cup of wine to be pressed into his hand.

"I am going to be a grandfather," continued Bors, "my youngest son has begun training with Gawain, Tris got married, and I'm sure Dag will too once we get him drunk enough to propose to Gwenllian."

Dagonet's face remained impassive, as it did most of the time when Bors teased him.

"All your little speech proves is that _you_ are getting old, Bors. Not us," drawled Lancelot. He smirked and stuck his nose in his own cup. "The wine is different."

"Keep drinking and you won't notice anymore," advised Galahad drily.

"No, it really is different," maintained Lancelot. "Does Cook have a new supplier?"

"Yes, Lancelot, we all know your refined palate cannot take a change in wine without having to whinge about it," sighed Galahad, "but –"

"Shut it, pup."

"Cheers, my friend."

"Aye, cheers!" interrupted Bors. "To your marriage, Tris. May your wife be as fiery and your children as many as mine."

"Let's hope not," muttered Tristan, but he joined in when his comrades clanked their cups together.

"What's the occasion?" called Gawain, as he entered the hall.

"Tristan's marriage," answered Galahad. "And Bors's old age."

"Well, that's as good a reason as any," shrugged Gawain. "Pass me the wine, will you?" He sat down next to Galahad.

"Are your sons wreaking havoc again?" asked the younger knight.

"I have no idea where they are at the moment and thank the gods for it," answered Gawain, and drank deeply. "When you're away for so long, you tend to forget how obnoxious they can be," he added. "Start missing them, but gods, once you're back..."

"Poor Ragnell," empathized Galahad.

"I don't know how she does it," nodded Gawain. He leered evilly at Galahad. "Just you wait. Yours'll be running around too before you know it and you'll never have a moment of peace again."

Lancelot laughed genially. "Listen to us. Discussing our sons. Who'd have thought that eight years ago?"

"Eight years ago, I didn't think I'd survive our service to Rome," quipped Bors.

"None of us did," snorted Gawain, "except our little pup." He ruffled Galahad's hair. "And he's still so very innocent."

Galahad slapped Gawain's hand away. "Why must you always target me?"

Tristan smiled in his cup. Much had changed in the world they lived in, but the dynamics between his friends had remained the same.

Gawain left Galahad alone and turned to Tristan. "So, has my wife interrogated you about your marriage yet?"

Ignoring the sniggers coming from Lancelot next to him, Tristan nodded.

"Sorry about that," said Gawain, then adding with a grin, "but you know she is very protective of you."

"Like a mother hen," agreed Lancelot.

Tristan thought about Ragnell, who was not only half his size, but also only a few years short of being half his age as well. Yet, the epithet was remarkably fitting.

"A very little mother hen," commented Galahad.

"Doesn't matter what size she is," bellowed Bors. "We all know she's got our commander here on a tight leash."

Gawain gave Bors a dry look, smiled daintily, and said, "I do love a woman with a tight grip."

Galahad spewed his wine back into his cup. Gawain looked at him disapprovingly from the corner of his eye. "Don't know what you're spluttering about. So do you."

"Bleedin' gods, do you mind?" spat out Bors. "I only tolerate the pup as my daughter's husband, because the rest of you are even worse, but I don't want to hear about that sort of thing!"

"Bors," cut in Dagonet patiently and quietly, "your daughter is eight months along with child. Has Vanora forgotten to explain a few things to you?"

The whole table was silent for a moment, then they all roared with laughter.

"I'll bet he's been wondering where all those babes popped up from all these years," grinned Lancelot smugly. "Even though I've tried telling him they're all mine."

"Shut up, Lance," growled Bors. "And trust me, my Van's made it more than clear to me where those babes came from and whose fault it was. All thirteen times she's given birth." He gave a little shudder as he nursed his cup of wine.

"And yet you never learn," said Lancelot.

"'Course I don't," replied Bors, giving a lecherous grin. "Have you _seen_ Van?"

"Yes, I have," grinned Lancelot back, even more lecherously.

Bors's face quickly turned an unhealthy shade of red, so Gawain cut in, "So, what do you think will happen with Cadoc and Vincentius? Reckon we'll be spending the rest of the summer in the west?"

Galahad shook his head. "No, Cadoc arrived an hour ago. Fortunately not stupid enough to defy Arthur. It'll be settled by the end of the week."

Lancelot groaned. "Look at us. I stand by what I said earlier. Eight years ago, who would've thought we'd end up like this? Political marriages and squabbling over scraps of land."

"Thanks for that, Lancelot. Now I feel like a Roman," said Gawain.

"And it's not us that's squabbling over land. We're just trying to stop others from doing that," argued Galahad.

"Maybe we could go home to Sarmatia after all," suggested Gawain hopefully. "After all, we only stayed after Badon Hill because you three were more dead than alive." He pointed accusingly at Dagonet, Tristan and Lancelot.

"Would you like me to apologize to you for that?" asked Lancelot. "Again?"

"He's just pouting," said Bors. "We were a done deal before Badon Hill, and he knows it."

"Still, it was a close shave, that battle. Our number was nearly halved," said Galahad.

"Aye, think of the peace and quiet we would have had," said Bors, turning a wicked eye to Lancelot. "But no such luck. All thanks to that healer. Can't remember the name – the one that got sent to us as part of the alliance with Niall, right after Badon Hill."

"Niall sent his own daughter, didn't he? As a sign of his good will. She was at the Wall for nearly half a year, before he called her back to An Gleann. Whatever became of her?" frowned Galahad.

"She married a few years ago," answered Lancelot. "That was the wedding that allied the Dumnonians to us."

"That's the one," nodded Galahad. "Right before the battles in the south."

"Which we won thanks to the Dumnonians," added Gawain.

"Which the Dumnonians won thanks to us," corrected Lancelot. "It was their lands that were being invaded as well."

"In any case, it's been quiet on that front ever since," said Gawain. "Must be five years now. Ragnell was expecting my youngest when we went down there."

Tristan drank the last of his wine in one gulp. He didn't like to think back on those early days of Arthur's kingdom. The wounds inflicted on him by the Saxon leader had nearly left him a cripple, but before he'd even become aware of that, he'd nearly died of a fever brought on by the infection of the wound in his side.

He remembered the healer very well – she'd had her hands full with him.

It had taken weeks before he'd regained enough strength to get out of bed, only to find out that he could barely walk. The muscle of his leg was so damaged it could no longer support his weight. The thought of having to live the rest of his life as useless as a lame horse had made him want to kill himself.

The healer from An Gleann had observed him wallowing in his black pit of misery, but before he could do anything drastic, she had stolen all his knives and then forced him to exercise his leg, insisting the damage was not permanent. She'd had to drag him out of bed each and every day, until the leg became marginally better and he had seen for himself that it could heal.

It had taken a full year before he was back to his former strength. The healer had gone back to An Gleann by that time, so she had never seen him fully healed, but they had met again during the battles in the south.

Tristan refilled his cup and drank again. He really didn't like thinking about those days.


	14. Feast

**A/N: After having been completely stuck with the timeline for this story, and life getting in the way, I finally have an update. I do hope there is still someone with saintly patience that wants to read it. **

**Rated M for newlywed bliss. Sort of. **

**Feast**

Tegwen was glowing with the excitement of the evening, Eirian noticed. Her sister was wearing a deep red dress that set off the fairness of her hair, which was held neatly out of her face for once. The polished black combs in her hair gleamed in the light of the many candles and hearth fires. Most of the blonde mass bounced down Tegwen's back as she weaved through the intricate pattern the dancers were making.

Eirian was standing to the side, as far from the two gigantic hearths as possible. The hall was hot enough without the added heat from the fires, in her opinion. She lifted a surreptitious hand to lift her hair from her neck, hoping to cool off a bit, but to no use. It was simply too warm.

Seeing as tonight's feast was in honour of her marriage, Eirian knew that she probably had to take part in the festivities more actively, but given the way that had all come about, she just could not bring herself to do so. She took care to be polite and friendly, appearing as happy as she could, but she was just not in a celebratory mood.

She nodded at Vincentius, but did not engage him in conversation, as she had promised her sister that she would listen to Tristan's command. Eirian bit on the inside of her cheek to hide a smirk. Her husband had not appreciated her snide remark that he had no reason to worry about his very obedient wife who would speak to no one without his permission.

The air began to feel too stifling, denying her breath. Eirian made her way to the doors, wanting to get some fresh air outside. She sent an apologetic smile to Gawain's wife Ragnell, who waved at her to join the dancers.

The moment she stepped out of the fort into the cool night air, she gave a sigh of relief. She made a slow round around the courtyard, enjoying the sense of goosebumps as the perspiration on her skin dried. Summer was drawing near its end. The nights were already turning chilly.

She stopped her stroll to look at two young people stumbling into the courtyard, the girl tugging on the arm of the boy, who clearly had been imbibing wine or ale. The girl laughed and stood still, allowing the boy to wrap his arms around her waist and bury his face in her neck. The laughter turned into a giggle and the girl grabbed a handful of hair and pulled the boy back, who only grinned and kissed the girl full on the lips.

Eirian smiled and turned away, only to realize with a start that the two were around her age. She looked back with slight envy. She felt so much older sometimes. Shaking her head, she chided herself that she had responsibilities – had chosen those responsibilities. "Stop pouting," she muttered to herself.

She turned away again, only to find a looming shadow in front of her. With a startled cry, she reeled backwards. A steadying hand extended out of the darkness and took her elbow, Tristan's face emerging from the shadows at the same time.

Eirian pressed a hand against her thumping heart. "Dear God, you scared me half to death," she breathed and chuckled, now beginning to feel rather silly. "What are you doing here?"

"You left the feast."

Eirian arched an eyebrow. "I did. So? Were you afraid I'd make a run for it?"

Tristan's mouth seemed to twitch, but it was hard to tell in the gloom. "Not unlikely." He looked at her in what she thought was an inquiring way.

"I wanted to get some fresh air," she explained. "It's too warm inside." She tilted her head and returned his questioning look. "You really distrust me, don't you? What did you think I was up to? Attempting to start a rebellion right here in the courtyard, just to get out of our preposterous marriage?"

This time she was sure his mouth twitched into a smirk, though it was gone as fast as it appeared. "I would not think it beyond you to try to do something foolish," he replied, still in that infuriatingly impassive tone.

Eirian snorted rudely, then shrugged and admitted, "Well, I cannot deny that the thought has crossed my mind."

"No doubt," he said. The smirk that followed was much broader than the one before, but by no means did it convey humour. Eirian swallowed uneasily, unsettled by the sudden wolfishness in Tristan's expression. "Rebel as much as you want, but you are wedded and bedded. And mine." He eyed her with a predatory gleam, the tip of his tongue moistening his bottom lip. "Though I don't mind a bit of a struggle."

Wide-eyed, Eirian took a step back. "Aren't you taking well to marriage," she quipped, the intended sass completely negated by the quaver in her voice.

"Certain aspects of it are not without their merit, it would seem."

Eirian did not have to ask which aspects. There was no mistaking the look in his eyes. Flustered and nervous, she took another two steps back, realizing her mistake immediately. Her half-hearted attempt at fleeing the scene set Tristan to action. He lunged forward and took her upper arms, pulling her out of the torch-lit courtyard and into the shadows he had come from.

"Tristan," she hissed. "Tristan, what are you..." She was cut off by his mouth, hot and firm on hers. She struggled to get out of his grip, turning her head sideways. "You can't keep doing this," she burst out.

He stared down at her. "You misunderstand. I can." He kissed her again, this time cajoling instead of brutal, though no less insistent, teasing her lips and the corners of her mouth. Well, it seemed he was not to be dissuaded, she thought, and – damn it if she wasn't already kissing him back. What was she doing? It was as if only part of her mind was protesting, the other part seemed more than happy to let Tristan do what he wanted. That part was telling her that no matter how much she disliked the fact, she _was_ married to this man, and her body did like what he was doing, so why not simply enjoy it?

Because it made everything complicated. She did not want complications – she wanted this to be clear-cut and uncompromising.

_But you love politics_, the other part of her mind smirked, the part that now made her open her mouth, in response to Tristan's tongue tracing her lips. _Politics is also complicated. You love complicated matters_.

Not this! she protested. Not this! This could not be complicated. Politics she could understand and keep a firm grasp on, but this was too confusing to control.

Eirian was snapped out of her internal discussion when Tristan made her walk backwards until she was against a wall, keeping his mouth locked on hers and leaning his body into hers from hip to chest.

She tried to clear her head, but did not know how, not when his tongue was doing such wicked things to her mouth. She briefly wondered what Tristan had done to her body to make it want him in this way, even as her mind could not wrap itself around her response. When he pushed his thigh between hers, pressing against her so very intimately, Eirian lost her train of thought, no longer able to concentrate on anything but the delicious friction he was creating.

Tristan's body against hers was a compelling reminder of her wedding night, and with the appearance of those images the last sane part of her mind evaporated. Eirian rubbed her hips experimentally against Tristan's, and gasped at the sparks of pleasure it sent through her belly. Wanting more of it, she moved her hips again, with more fervour. Tristan growled, his hand shooting down her side and wedging itself between the wall and her body, grabbing her buttocks and pressing her into him even harder.

Eirian choked out a soft moan. Tightening his grip on her backside, he moved her against him in a slow rhythm that only seemed to increase the ache between her thighs instead of alleviating it.

She let out another moan, tinged with frustration this time, her hands clenched in the back of his tunic. She could feel his hardness pressing into her hip and it made something inside her coil tighter and tighter. She wanted more, more of this, but didn't know how to ask for it. Her skin felt searing hot and her body was demanding to be relieved of this tension. She ripped her mouth away from Tristan, heaving in much needed air.

Tristan slid one hand around the back of her head, tangling in her hair, and kissed her again, his mouth sliding down to her neck after a moment. Eirian took a shuddering breath when he latched on to the sensitive spot beneath her ear. When he replaced his tongue with his teeth, biting down softly, she groaned, her hips jerking towards him on their own accord. "Please," she whispered, not really knowing what she was pleading for. Just more, more of this, that was all the thought her hazy mind was able to construct at the moment.

Tristan stilled, his hand tightening even further in her hair. After a forceful mutter against her neck, he straightened, letting go of her. "We'll finish this after the feast."

Eirian stared at him, still befuddled. "What?" she breathed, her voice hoarse from desire.

The corner of Tristan's mouth curled up. "Unless you want half of Camelot to see me taking the lady of Caer Brannum up against a wall."

Truthfully? At this point Eirian wasn't sure she'd even care. She opened her mouth to tell him so, but Tristan beat her to it. "Come on," he said and pulled her away from the wall she was still leaning against. "You'd regret it in the morning."

Never mind his words, he looked very pleased with himself, Eirian noticed. Glaring at him, she smoothened her dress and hair. As they turned to walk back to the Hall, she saw him adjusting his breeches out of the corner of her eye. She smirked wickedly. At least he was suffering discomfort as well.

* * *

Blissfully unaware of her sister's troubles, Tegwen had been having the night of her life. There were rarely such big feasts as this in Caer Brannum, and even when there had been, she'd never been allowed to go. Too young, her father had always said, and so had her sister, up until very recently.

So, having grasped this rare opportunity with both hands, Tegwen had been dancing all night, stopping only for a drink every now and then. Tendrils of her blonde hair were sticking to her neck and forehead, her face was glowing with heat, her feet were burning, but she could care less. As far as she was concerned, her sister should celebrate her marriage every week if it meant feasts like this.

Wiping her hair from her face, Tegwen looked around for Eirian, and found her, surprisingly enough, with Tristan. Eirian was watching the dancers, while Tristan was standing behind her, bent over so his lips were very close to her ear, speaking softly to her. It was difficult to see in the smoky, fire-lit hall, but it looked as if Eirian's face was turning redder and redder by the moment. Tegwen wondered if Tristan was picking another fight with Eirian, but her sister didn't seem all that angry. In fact, she was leaning slightly backwards, closer to Tristan.

When his lips brushed her ear, Eirian's eyes fluttered shut. She turned her head slightly and said something in return, at which Tristan's hand snaked around her waist and pressed her backwards against his body. Eirian bit her lip.

Tegwen blinked. Well... That was... That did not look like a fight at all. Not sure what to make of them, she looked away and found the curly-haired young knight she had met earlier that day in front of her.

"Oh, no."

"Lady Tegwen!" he grinned. "You look radiant, the shining star of this evening."

Tegwen wrinkled her nose. "What do you want? If you're wondering about Sir Tristan, I haven't asked him yet if he still wants to kill your friend for his stupid ruining of that mission," she snapped. "He's been... preoccupied." She sneaked another glance in the direction of her brother-in-law and her sister. Yes, definitely still preoccupied.

Lucan followed her look and his grin widened. "Very preoccupied, I see. Ah, young love is so inspirational. Well, not so young in Tristan's case, but no matter. We should let ourselves be inspired anyway."

"By young love? And how old are you yourself, little grandfather?" retorted Tegwen.

"Sixteen, why?" replied Lucan, unfazed.

"Never mind." _Really_, thought Tegwen, _this was one of the king's knights?_ "I am not going to be inspired with you."

Lucan smirked. "That's a pity. How about just a dance, then?"

Tegwen hesitated, suspecting he'd just said something inappropriate, but not quite being able to put her finger on it. "I don't know."

"It's just a dance, come on." Lucan grabbed her hand and pulled her into the throng of dancers.

* * *

Eirian was feeling jittery, excited, and angry all at once. She could not believe Tristan had left her in such a state, certainly could not believe she wanted him to finish what he started, and especially could not believe that he was actually persisting in his teasing right in the middle of the Great Hall.

It was all very covert, of course, because the bastard made sure that no one saw that his hand kept lingering on the curve of her hip or low on her back, or snaked across her waist for a moment, pressing her back against his body, his lips touching her ear while he said unspeakable things to her. Well... maybe that last one had caught some attention, if Lancelot's smirk was anything to go by.

But Tristan's dark looks from halfway across the Hall while she mingled in the crowd were just as disconcerting. She could feel his eyes on her all the time, even if she could not see him, and she knew what those eyes were saying. That he would make good on his promise to pick up where they had left off. She wanted it – there was no denying it. Eirian's whole skin was humming, so aware of him she was. But the intensity of his gaze was alarming, as was the way he stalked around the Hall, his eyes trained on her no matter who he was speaking to.

More than once she thought of running, but she distracted herself by making small-talk with whomever was in her vicinity. But the feeling of being cornered just became worse and worse, mixing with the excitement from earlier in the evening and sending her head spinning, until she could not think straight anymore. The music and the chatter was so loud, and the heat and the smoke were suffocating, and everywhere she went there was Tristan's presence, just in the corner of her eye or right in front of her, pinning her with that unrelenting stare. She felt like prey, and being preyed upon by the likes of Tristan was more frightening than exciting.

Eirian looked around the Hall, trying to search inconspicuously for that pair of dark eyes that were haunting her, quickly looking away when she found them each and every time, and continuing her conversations with increasing desperation.

The moment she could not see him anymore, Eirian hurried towards the great doors of the Hall, determined to get away so she could just breathe. She forced herself not to run, her eyes fixed on the nearing doors. She stretched out her hand to push it open, her fingertips brushing the wood, when it was yanked away by a large hand. Eirian stumbled into a hard body, and knew who it was before she looked up into flashing, dark eyes.

A completely inappropriate word slipped from her lips before she could help it.

"Indeed," replied Tristan. "Running, eh?"

Her denial died in her throat when she saw the challenge in his eyes. He was enjoying this. Eirian's breath hitched with apprehension, and she kept quiet, not daring to egg him on any further. Her body had other ideas, though. The dull throbbing between her thighs refused to cease, no matter how anxious Eirian was.

She licked her dry lips nervously, trying to think of a response. The movement made Tristan's eyes snap to her mouth, his nostrils flaring. Without a word, he opened the doors of the Hall and walked out, dragging her along with him.

Fortunately, the way to their chambers was not that long, because it was hard to keep up with his long strides. She was silent all the way, her breathing coming in short, nervous bursts. Tristan pushed her through the door first, where her maids were waiting for her. Eirian tried to compose herself, but a concerned frown formed on Bethyn's face.

"Out," commanded Tristan behind her.

Bethyn didn't move, her eyes flicking back to Eirian. Any other moment, Eirian would have been glad of that display of loyalty, but right now she did not want to push Tristan any further than she feared she already had. "Yes, thank you, Bethyn," she said quickly. "I won't be needing you tonight."

Bethyn curtsied and herded the other two maids outside. Tristan slammed the door closed so fast it nearly trapped the hem of Bethyn's dress.

Eirian slowly took a few steps backwards, retreating further into the room and taking refuge at the rough-hewn wooden table that was still littered with half unpacked items from their arrival earlier that day. Tristan unbuckled his belt, threw it aside, and pulled his tunic over his head. "Take off that dress," he demanded, beginning to unlace the neckline of his shirt at the same time.

Eirian timidly shook her head. She was lost somewhere between fear and excitement, and unsure of Tristan's mood, she didn't know which to listen to. He crossed the distance between them within the blink of an eye, coming nearly nose to nose with her. Eirian gripped the edge of the table tightly.

"You didn't refuse me in the courtyard," he muttered, his lips brushing hers. "Rubbing yourself against me like a cat."

Eirian's eyes widened at his words. "That's... that's..." she stuttered, absolutely mortified.

"So what changed?"

"You're scaring me," she whispered, foregoing any pride she might have still had.

Tristan raised an eyebrow. "Am I?" He reached down, keeping his eyes on hers, and slipped his hand under her skirt. Eirian started when he touched her ankle. Slowly, Tristan straightened up again, dragging his hand up her leg as he stood. She held her breath, her nails digging into the table.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when he reached her womanhood, cupping her with his hand and sliding one finger back and forth between her folds. "That's not fear, Eirian."

Too embarrassed to keep looking at him, she averted her face, grinding out a strangled groan as his thumb began rubbing circles on a spot that shot sparks all the way down to her toes.

His husky voice made her shiver. "Still scared?"

Her reply was little more than a moan. "No."

Tristan's other hand wrapped around the back of her head, his lips suddenly crushing hers. He kissed her deeply and roughly, but Eirian didn't care, putting as much force into it as him. She pushed against his tongue with her own, challenging his demanding kiss. He was driving her towards a point beyond control, her fear of pushing him too far thrown to the wind. She bit his bottom lip, hard.

He growled and bit back. It hurt, but in a good way. Tristan hissed something she didn't understand, pulled her away from the table, turned her around and pushed her back into it, his fingers tugging forcefully on the laces on her back. He yanked the neckline down impatiently, taking her shift with it, exposing the upper half of her body.

Eirian freed her arms from the dress and braced herself against the table, panting heavily, and focussed on the hardness that was pressing against her lower back. Tristan's hands came around to her breasts, rolling and plucking at her nipples. He buried his face in her neck, kissing and nipping at sensitive spots. Eirian tilted her head to give him more access, bringing up one arm to slide her hand in his thick, black hair.

One of his hands abandoned her breasts to pull her skirts back up, and slid between her legs again, stroking her expertly. "Tristan," she gasped, her hips moving in time with the rhythm of his hand and trying to push back against his hips at the same time. "Please."

She begged silently that he would not torment her any further and protested vocally when both his hands suddenly released her. Looking over her shoulder she saw him take off his shirt. Tristan grabbed her waist and turned her around, planting her on top of the table.

Here? she thought fleetingly. He was going to do it here?

Tristan untied the laces of his breeches, hauled her skirts all the way up to her hips, and pulled her towards him by the back of her knees. She leaned forward to kiss his chest, rubbing her palms up and down the hard planes at the same time. She traced the diagonal scar across his chest again, and boldly let her tongue follow.

Taking the soft rumble in his chest as appreciation, she turned her attention to his flat nipple, swirling her tongue around it, just to see if it did to him what it did to her. It did, she noted with satisfaction. Feeling extremely daring, she slid her hands down his sides and slipped them inside his breeches, pushing them down his hips, releasing his manhood.

Eirian swallowed, her nerves resurfacing for a moment. On her wedding night, she hadn't actually seen it, only felt it. Now she touched it cautiously and then dragged her fingertips from its base to the tip. It twitched in her hand, and above her, she heard Tristan suck in his breath through his teeth. She wrapped her hand around it to feel it better, somewhat fascinated by the contradiction of velvety skin and hard flesh.

Tristan cursed and grabbed her wrist to still it. She let go, looking up at him. "I'm sorry."

He grinned. "Don't be."

Before she had time to ask what he meant, he was pushing himself into her. Eirian wrapped an arm around his neck, pressing her lips against his collarbone as she felt her insides stretch to accommodate him. Tristan wrapped her legs around his waist, and following his lead, she locked her ankles behind his back.

Tristan's hands reached for her hips, gripping them tightly, and then he sheathed himself to the hilt in her with a single thrust. Eirian muffled her cry against his neck. Fingers digging into her flesh, he began sliding himself in and out in a slow, steady rhythm that had Eirian soon teetering on the edge of madness.

"More." The rawness in her own voice shocked her. "More."

Tristan took her arm from his neck and pushed against her midriff until her back was flat on the table. He hooked his arms under her knees and then slammed back into her, deeper than ever before. Eirian arched off the table, a scream ripping from her throat.

His breathing was coming in ragged gasps, she could hear it over the blood drumming in her ears. He began to pound into her without relent, driving the very air from her lungs. Eirian's head was thrown back, her mouth half-open in an attempt to breathe. Never had she imagined it could be this way. Never had she imagined she would enjoy it this way.

She didn't think she'd be able to walk tomorrow, and was surprised that she liked that thought.

Tristan did not let up, her legs locked in his grasp, his merciless thrusts bringer her closer and closer to oblivion, but never close enough. She was going mad, and was damn near ready to beg, when he let go of one of her legs to bring his hand between their bodies. The moment he touched her, she was gone, her vision blinded by white light, every fibre of her screaming in ecstasy. Somewhere very far away she heard a sudden roar, and felt Tristan spill inside her.

Slowly coming to, she found Tristan slumped over her, his head resting between her breasts. Groggily, Eirian weaved her fingers in his sweat-soaked hair. She could not move. She was just going to go to sleep here, though it would give the maids a hell of a shock when they came back.

On second thought...

She gently pulled Tristan's hair. "Bed?" she suggested.

* * *

Despite her earlier misgivings about Lucan, Tegwen was having fun. Together they'd joined the chains and circles that the dancers formed, and when they needed a breath, they went to the side, clapping along with the rhythm of the music.

Tegwen glanced at the knight out of the corner of her eye. She didn't quite know what to make of him. He was completely obnoxious and annoying, of course, but so had his friend Gwilyam been, so Tegwen supposed this must be a common trait of young knights. She couldn't be sure, for she had never interacted much with boys of her age. Her father and her sister had always kept her very protected.

Despite his less than favourable first impression, Lucan was beginning to win her over by being very nice to her. And he turned out to be a reasonably good dancer, able to dance and talk at the same time.

She risked another glance at him. He was cheering the dancers on, his light brown curls bouncing around his face. As Gwilyam passed them by, dancing hand in hand with two red-haired girls, Lucan called out to him. Gwilyam turned his head, linked the hands of the girls together, and stepped out of the throng.

"Entertaining your sisters?" grinned Lucan.

Gwilyam shrugged indulgently. "I'm helpless when they beg."

"What if Fflur begs you?" asked Lucan.

I would say no. I'd be much too afraid that her baby suddenly falls out," shuddered Gwilyam.

"Then you'd best start running, because here she comes," informed Lucan.

"Lady Fflur?" inquired Tegwen, as she spotted the heavily pregnant woman heading their way, arm linked with Lancelot. "Sir Galahad's wife? She's your sister?"

"My eldest sister, yes. You've met her?"

"When we arrived here, briefly. So that means that you are a son of Sir Bors?"

"You didn't know?" asked Lucan her. "Ah, well, the difference in amount of hair tends to throw people off."

Fflur and Lancelot arrived, Fflur letting go of the royal advisor and wrapping her arm around Gwilyam's. "Gilly, be a dear and take me to my room," she said. "I am done for the night."

" Well, where is Galahad?" asked Gwilyam.

"Passed out on a bench after a drinking contest with our dear father, who is right beside him," replied Fflur. "I have every intention of letting him spend the night there. I need my rest."

Gwilyam grinned. "So I shouldn't try to wake them up with a bucket of cold water?"

Fflur raised a threatening eyebrow at her younger brother. "No."

"Oh, you are getting cranky," teased Gwilyam. "I will escort you away immediately." Fflur said goodnight to the others and walked off towards the doors with her brother.

Lancelot stayed. "How are you liking the feast, Tegwen?"

"I like it very much," answered Tegwen gladly. "I've never been to any feast this large before."

"Maybe you should stay in Camelot more often then," said Lucan.

Tegwen smiled. "Maybe."

Lancelot cleared his throat, arching an eyebrow at Lucan. The young knight returned a sheepish smile, but his attention was diverted by the arrival of a man Tegwen hadn't met before. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his strawberry-blond hair straight and held together at the base of his neck. Tegwen estimated him to be somewhere in his twenties.

"Sir Lancelot," the man said. "Young sir Lucan. And I don't think I have made your acquaintance yet, my lady?"

"This is lady Tegwen of Caer Brannum," Lancelot introduced her. "Tegwen, this is Huw of Elfed, son and heir of Lord Eurig."

Tegwen curtsied. "Sir."

"Ah, the sister of the infamous lady Eirian, who has had half the kingdom in an uproar," replied Huw.

Tegwen saw Lancelot's polite expression shimmer into something sharper. He eyed Huw intently with dark, shrewd eyes. Tegwen did not quite understand Lancelot's sudden mood change, but the chill that she felt between the two men was undoubtedly real. "Surely," she said quickly, "all that is settled now."

Huw sent a short, condescending smile her way. "Yes, Eirian has managed to worm her way out of a dire situation, hasn't she?"

Tegwen wasn't sure whether Eirian would agree with that, but she thought it best to leave that unspoken.

"Forgive me," drawled Lancelot, "but it sounds as if you take issue with the decision of the king?"

Huw presented another smile, one that dripped with falsehood, according to Tegwen. "Of course not," said Huw. "Where is she, anyway? I haven't had the chance to congratulate her on her advantageous second marriage."

Lancelot sneered. "It must have been quite an unfortunate circumstance that prevented you from congratulating her all night."

Huw's face was cold and challenging.

Tegwen swallowed. This was an enemy of her sister. "She left earlier," she said quickly.

"With Lord Tristan," said Lucan. "Newlyweds, I'm sure you understand."

"I'm surprised at their... _affection_," replied Huw. "After all, everyone knows that this marriage was arranged with undue haste."

"What's this? Surely not a sour face, Huw?" smirked Lancelot. "You were the one who retracted your offer of marriage to her. She had no choice but to look elsewhere for a husband."

Huw's jaw tightened.

"Aye," continued Lancelot breezily, "perhaps it would have been better not to listen to vile rumours whispered by malcontent exiles. Your high king did not, and he blessed lady Eirian's marriage to Tristan himself."

"It is an advantageous marriage, though, isn't it?" said Tegwen sweetly. "I daresay it is even more advantageous than any of the proposals that were retracted."

Tegwen smiled in return to the eyebrow Lancelot cocked at her in surprise. "I must admit I very much like her choice too," she added, as if unaware of the barb she had just handed out. "I have no doubt that Caer Brannum will be kept safe under the lordship of my new brother."

Lucan snorted. "Well, that's true. Tristan particularly dislikes other people touching what is his."

"Yes," said Tegwen. "That should be warning enough." She beamed up innocently at Huw. "For the Saxons, of course."


	15. A Day in Camelot

**A/N: **Thanks for all your kind reviews. I have a speedier update this time (though any slower than the last one probably wouldn't have been possible...) and I hope you enjoy it.

Rated M for a scene in which people do not take kindly to being disturbed at inopportune moments.

* * *

**A Day in Camelot**

Tegwen lengthened her strides to keep up with Lancelot as he escorted her back to her room after the verbal duel with Huw of Elfed. "Am I correct, sir Lancelot," she began, "in assuming that Huw believes Arwel instead of Eirian when it comes to Ifan's death?"

Lancelot inclined his head. "You would be correct indeed."

"Am I then also correct in assuming that it is possible that Huw is not the only enemy Eirian has in the kingdom, especially seeing as how open he was about it?" she pressed.

The royal advisor turned his head to her, piercing her with a dark, calculating look. "That is another good assumption," he answered slowly. "Care to tell me what exactly the point is that you are so elaborately trying to make?"

"Well, based on my previous assumptions, I would conclude that it would be in Eirian's best interest that she and Tristan present a united front," Tegwen concluded.

"Aye, that would be a sensible assumption."

Tegwen bit her lip. "She truly does need the protection that Tristan offers."

"Aye."

"She won't like that."

Lancelot's mouth twitched. "I reckon she won't."

"It's not funny," said Tegwen indignantly. "It's unfair."

"True," agreed Lancelot amiably. "It is unfair. And stomping your foot and complaining about it won't make a difference."

"I do _not_ stomp my foot."

"Very well, you do not stomp your foot," acquiesced Lancelot gallantly.

Tegwen decided to save her dignity by speaking no more.

After a short silence, Lancelot turned to her again. "I underestimated you," he told her. "You see much more than I thought you did."

"I'm not a child," answered Tegwen. "Not anymore. And I'm not deaf either. You'd be surprised how much people say when they _think_ no one of consequence is listening."

Lancelot smiled at her. "And you would consider yourself as someone of consequence?"

"Well," she shrugged, "I suppose that, in principle, I possess the same rank as Huw. He is the heir of a lord, and so am I. So, if Huw thinks he is someone of consequence, then I am as well."

Lancelot swallowed a laugh. "He wouldn't be very amused if you told him that."

"I'm not really interested in amusing Huw," retorted Tegwen.

"But you amuse me," said Lancelot, and held up a hand when Tegwen opened her mouth again. "I know, you are not interested in amusing me either, am I correct?"

"Perhaps," replied Tegwen coyly.

Lancelot frowned at her. "What _are_ you interested in?"

Tegwen paused, her face slowly turning serious. "I am interested in my sister's happiness."

"Ah."

"The marriage," she persisted. "It was your doing. Do you think it a good idea?"

Lancelot grimaced and ran his hand over his goatee. "Do you want a truthful answer or a reassuring one?"

Tegwen pursed her lips disapprovingly. "Truthful."

He sighed. "Could be good, could be disastrous. To be honest, I have no idea what it is going to be."

They stopped at Tegwen's door. "Good night, lady Tegwen. Lock your door."

She entered her room, but before she closed the door, she caught the end of something Lancelot muttered to himself as he walked away. Confused, she slid the lock of the door into place, wondering whose past it was that Lancelot hoped wouldn't be stirred up.

* * *

This time Tristan woke when Eirian tried to leave the bed. He tightened his hold on her waist. "Running again?" he asked, rubbing his hand over his face. Something about his sleepy, raspy voice made her shiver. Eirian bit her lip, which was not such a good idea given how tender it still was from the previous night.

She winced and let go of it immediately. "No," she said, sitting up. "I just want to get to the bath house. Lady Ragnell told me that it is quite elaborate."

Tristan gave a vague grunt, his eyes falling on her exposed chest. "Better hurry, then. From noon on, it is open for men." He slowly trailed a finger down her breast, until it caught on her quickly tautening nipple.

"There are no separate baths for women?" she asked, her voice turning breathy as she watched his finger, now circling her breast.

"No. This used to be a legionary fortress. Not many women around."

"I see." Eirian swallowed when his finger slid back to her nipple, rolling it between his thumb and finger until it was as hard as a pebble, and then pinched it softly. The pleasure it brought shot straight down to her groin, making her suck in her breath through her teeth.

Tristan pulled her back down to him and shoved the sheets away, his hand now wandering freely all over her skin.

Eirian arched herself closer to him. "Didn't you say I had to hurry to the baths?"

He raised an eyebrow at her and slipped his hand between her thighs. "You want me to stop?" His fingers began to rub her slowly, tracing her folds and teasing that spot that seemed to be made of pure nerves.

"I didn't say that," she breathed hurriedly, after swallowing a moan. Very shyly, Eirian let her own hand trace his arm and side, down to his hip and backside. This interested reciprocation of hers was all still new to her, but she pictured his response to her brazenness when she had done this last night, so she skimmed his hipbone with a feathery touch and wrapped her fingers around his manhood.

Tristan was watching her intently while she continued with her careful exploration. Eirian felt her face glowing with embarrassment at his scrutiny, but she could not contain her curiosity. Suddenly Tristan's hand slipped further between her thighs, pushing two fingers deeply into her.

She groaned with pleasure at the sudden intrusion, her hand on his shaft tightening. It made Tristan hiss sharply, his hips bucking into her.

However, the booming voice outside the bedroom door made Eirian freeze. "What do you mean, he's not up yet?" There was a loud pounding on the door. "Tris, get your lazy arse out of bed. Arthur wants us at the Table. Now!"

Tristan rolled onto his back, spitting out an emphatic string of foreign words. He got up and retrieved his breeches. Eirian propped her head on one arm, watching the fascinating play of muscles under skin as he pulled them on.

More pounding on the door. "Tristan! Get up!"

With a dark and thunderous face, Tristan stalked towards the door. Eirian realized her unclothed state just in time and yanked the sheets back over her body, right when Tristan pulled open the door.

"Fuck off, Bors," he hissed.

Bors's face split into a wide grin. "Ah, you _were_ up, I see. I didn't interrupt anything, did I?" Looking around Tristan, he called out a greeting to Eirian.

Face flaming furiously, Eirian managed a limp little wave at the knight.

Tristan snorted and pushed Bors out of the doorway, following him outside.

"What the hell are you suddenly keeping maids around for anyway, telling me I can't come in?" commented the older knight.

"They're not mine," said Tristan and closed the bedroom door behind him.

Eirian let out a frustrated sigh and threw herself on her back, before pushing away the sheets and getting up. Bethyn slipped through the door with a quiet "Good morning, my lady."

"Morning, Bethyn. Thank you for staying Sir Bors. I'm not sure he wouldn't have just barged in otherwise."

"Me neither, my lady."

They exchanged a brief smile, after which Bethyn helped Eirian dress quickly and gathered her bathing supplies. Together they left the fortress and strolled into the surrounding town. Camelot was busy, extremely busy. The streets and alleys were packed with people going about their business, children playing and dogs slinking around, spying for food left unattended. Merchants loudly promoted their wares from stalls put up at the side of the streets, disagreements were fought out verbally in the open, the sound of babies crying drifted outside through open windows.

Eirian was very proud of Caer Brannum and the way it thrived, but her home was a mere village compared to the king's residence. Every inch of space was filled with little, ramshackle huts and hovels, side to side with larger stone constructions built by the Romans. The main streets were paved, but the rest was dirt, dried out and hard because of the good weather. Hundreds of feet, hooves, and wheels kicked up enough dust to irritate eyes and lungs, and it mixed with the pungent smell of too many people living close together, dung, charcoal fires and waste.

Eirian and Bethyn moved aside to let a farmer pass who was herding some sheep through the streets, loudly bleating their protest. Not fifteen yards further down the street, a man with a cart was arguing with a woman about her child spooking his horse, shouting at her while trying to hold on the horse that was tossing its head.

The two women edged past the cart and took a few turns until they came to the bathhouse, where a sudden calm enveloped them as they went inside. Due to time constraints, Eirian skipped the _caldarium_ and entered the _tepidarium_ immediately, a large bath chamber with black and white marble on the floor and exuberantly colourful murals all around her.

The bath itself was large enough to swim in, and after having been cleaned with oil and _strigil_, Eirian dismissed Bethyn and spent some time floating and swimming around, as she was the only one in the bath.

Eirian drifted over to the submerged benches on the edge of the bath. She closed her eyes, sitting back and resting the back of her head on the edge of the pool, enjoying the heat of the water. After a while, she heard the sound of bare feet padding her way, so she opened her eyes, turning her head slightly.

"Good morning, lady Eirian."

"Lady Ragnell," she replied courteously.

Ragnell handed her towels to her maid and carefully took the steps down into the pool, sighing contently. She smiled at Eirian. "These baths are the main reason I make Gawain take me with him to Camelot. I always tell him it's good for the boys to be with the other children and for me to keep in touch with the other ladies, but this is the real reason."

Eirian smiled back. "I can understand why."

She studied Ragnell covertly. The commander's wife was very delicately built. Her straight hair was an common shade of brown and her face, too, did not hold remarkable beauty, save for her eyes, which were dark brown and huge and liquid like a doe's. They were a startling feature in that tiny, frail-looking face. Ragnell looked like she could barely withstand a light breeze, but still she had managed to give birth to two healthy children.

"How long have you been married to Sir Gawain?" asked Eirian.

"Come winter it'll be seven years," answered Ragnell, settling onto a seat near her. She continued, "I first met him the year before. I went to the Wall, shortly after Arthur was crowned king. My father was one of the first to declare his loyalty, along with yours. There were many more, all flocking to the new centre of power. It was such a chaos in that tiny wall fort. I only met Gawain because he was making a fuss at the infirmary. His shoulder wound had been stitched by Galahad, and Gawain had pulled all of the stitches after they had determined he didn't need to rest his arm. The Roman physician had left with the last of the legion, and Dagonet – their own healer – had been wounded earlier and was still bedridden."

Ragnell pushed a lock of hair back into the bun that kept her hair out of the water. "Fortunately, Niall, of the Hibernian settlements on the west coast, had brought a healer with him when he came to ally himself with Arthur. But Gawain was taking offense at having to be examined by 'one of those raiding savages they should just kick back across the Western Sea' and a woman at that."

Eirian chuckled at Ragnell's attempt to deepen her voice into her husband's growly drawl. "What happened?"

"Well, that healer was Niall's own daughter and she had a very low tolerance for insults," smiled Ragnell. "I walked in, intending to offer my help to her, as there were still very many wounded, just to hear her tell him that he could either get out and let his shoulder rot or sit down and take off his tunic, and that if he stayed, he should shut his barbaric mouth if he did not want it cauterized shut."

"She sounds like a lovely woman," laughed Eirian. "I take it he stayed and shut up, seeing as he still has the use of both his shoulders?"

"Oh, he did," nodded Ragnell. "Even came back later to offer his apologies. Very bad mood, apparently. He was dreadfully worried about his fellow knights. Lancelot and Tristan were very seriously injured at Badon Hill and thought likely to die. It was a miracle they were even still alive by the time the healer got there."

"You helped her?"

"I did what I could. Which was not much. Lancelot had suffered a crossbow bolt to his chest and Tristan... well, he'd nearly been chopped to pieces. That was far beyond my skills."

Eirian's fingers tingled, remembering the feel of the scar tissue running diagonally across Tristan's chest. "Saxon," he'd said on their wedding night. She wondered how much more of his scars stemmed from that particular battle.

"But, obviously, they survived," said Eirian, hoping to encourage Ragnell to continue.

"That's only because Áine knew precisely what she was doing. Some called her a witch for that, but fortunately most said she was just very accomplished at what she did. Niall called her back to An Gleann when Lancelot and Tristan were well on the mend. A pity, we'd become friends by that time."

"Do you still see her sometimes?" asked Eirian.

Ragnell sighed and shook her head daintily. "No. She lives in the South now. Rarely travels to Camelot. She married the Dumnonian lord as part of his alliance to Arthur. Right in the middle of the Southern wars."

"Five years ago," said Eirian. "I remember. Caer Brannum was at risk too. It was the combined effort of the king's men and the Dumnonians that pushed back the Saxons. Ifan – my first husband – fought in that war."

"So did Tristan," added Ragnell. "Didn't hurt himself that badly again, though." There was a hint of protectiveness in her voice.

Eirian looked at Ragnell sideways. "You seem to know him well."

She shrugged. "Ah, as well as anyone can know Tristan. He doesn't let on much. But I do consider him a good friend, and he seems to tolerate me fairly well. He visits our home often." She added with a small grin, "And I have got used to his ways, of course."

At Eirian's sudden silence, Ragnell turned to look at her, compassion filling those fathomless eyes. "I know he is not an easy man, Eirian. And I also know that yours is a political marriage, arranged in haste. I remember myself having much trouble adjusting to the idea of marrying Gawain – and he is not half as difficult as Tristan."

Eirian produced a wan smile.

"I understand what you must be feeling," continued Ragnell. "But if it helps any, I can vouch for his character. Tristan is a very loyal friend and a very fierce enemy to his foes. He will keep you safe."

Eirian swallowed. She appreciated Ragnell's effort, but the problem was that it had yet to be determined whether Tristan was friend or enemy. No matter the things that went on in their bed, they still had serious differences of opinion to deal with. Ifan's murder still stood between them, and he blamed her for Tor's death, the young scout who had been killed by Arwel during his kidnap of Tegwen.

And then there was Rhodri, perhaps the biggest obstacle of all.

None of which she could tell Ragnell. "Thank you," smiled Eirian. "You're very kind to me."

Their maids came back into the _tepidarium_ and told them it was nearly noon. Ragnell and Eirian stepped out of the bath and walked to the _frigidarium_ for a quick dive. The cold water made them gasp and laugh, lightening the heavy mood.

Clean and refreshed, they dressed and parted with a promise to meet again soon. Eirian decided to go for a longer walk around Camelot, as she had not seen much of it yet.

* * *

Tegwen was waiting impatiently for Eirian to return from her walk around Camelot. Huw's animosity from the previous night still had her worried, and she wanted to talk to her sister before she found another opportunity to start a fight with Tristan.

She was in the couple's rooms, pacing to pass the time, as all the surfaces suitable to sit on were occupied with weaponry and cleaning equipment that Tegwen judged to be Tristan's. Though spacious, the room was fairly Spartan in its decoration and, again, she supposed this to be due to Tristan.

She bent over the collection of weapons on the nearby bench to examine them. There were a few daggers with a simple bone handle, a worn leather belt that had been greased meticulously, cloths and a whetting stone, another dagger, larger and with an engraved handle, and a curiously curved sword. Tegwen stretched out a finger to trace the curve when the door opened.

She jumped back, flushing when she saw it was Tristan. "Sorry," she mumbled. "I was waiting for Eirian."

"A sudden interest in swords?" he inquired.

"No, not really," shrugged Tegwen. "Though perhaps I should."

Tristan quirked an eyebrow. "Why?"

Tegwen hesitated, but really, Tristan should know this as well as Eirian. "Well, you see," she began. "Last night, at the feast, there was this man who came to talk to me and Sir Lancelot. Huw of Elfed."

Tristan picked up a cloth and began to wipe down the blades of the daggers lying on the bench. "I know him."

"Well, he said some things about Eirian. And you."

He looked at her as she faltered, waiting quietly for her to continue.

"About you being married. And the way it has come about," she clarified, watching the disconcertingly sure manner with which Tristan handled the blades while keeping his eyes on her. "He believes Arwel's claim about Ifan being murdered by Eirian. He was very openly hostile."

He produced a non-committal sound and inspected a slight stain on the dagger blade more closely. "What did Lancelot say?"

"He told Huw that he shouldn't believe malcontent exiles over the King."

Tristan let out an amused guffaw.

"You're not worried?" asked Tegwen.

"About Huw? We'll have to watch him, but no, this was to be expected," answered Tristan. "And you? Think you need to be educated on weapons because of him?"

"Well, yes. Because he's probably not the only one."

"No, he won't be the only one. But Arthur's protection and the Caer Brannum army are more deterring to Eirian's enemies than her younger sister trying to wield a sword," he deadpanned.

Tegwen blushed. "I know that. And I didn't mean that I should wield a sword, I just... I meant that I should take an interest in the defence of Caer Brannum. I felt very powerless last night."

"Learn from your sister then. Never got the impression she seems to feel powerless without a sword." Tristan examined the tip of the dagger and then put it aside, grabbing another one.

Tegwen put her hands on her hips. "But when push came to shove," she retorted tartly, "it was the threat of two enemy armies, _with swords_, that forced her to hand over Caer Brannum to you. Sharp words only hold so much power, but a sharp sword..."

He granted her the argument with a subtle nod. "Military force or diplomacy, that's a different discussion, though."

"And your preference would be military force?"

"Aye."

"Why?"

Tristan flashed her a sudden grin. "Much less time-consuming."

"Really?" sassed Tegwen. "Not that time-consuming? You've been doing it for over twenty years, haven't you? It's occupied quite a lot of your time."

Tilting his head, Tristan gave her a sardonic look, tossing the dagger up and down in his hand. "You have been learning from your sister already. More dogged with words than most men with swords. And more impudent."

Tegwen's blush returned tenfold. "I didn't mean to offend you."

Tristan grabbed a third dagger and started the process of polishing it over again. "Were you waiting for Eirian to tell her about Huw?"

She nodded.

"I'll do that."

Wrinkling her nose, she replied, "Do you think that's wise?" At Tristan's raised eyebrows, she elaborated. "Well, I simply meant – you won't use it to threaten her again, will you, or start another fight?"

"Don't you think that's between your sister and me?"

"No!" exclaimed Tegwen. "She's my sister."

"Who can fight her own battles."

Tegwen gasped. "So you are going to use it to threaten her!"

Tristan put down his dagger and crossed his arms, staring down at her. "Your sister and I are due for a few conversations," he told her calmly, "none of which are your business."

She quailed slightly under his intimidating glare, but refused to back down. She mimicked his stance by crossing her own arms. "Fine," she retorted, and with a swish of her dress and hair she passed him by and headed to the door, turning back in an imperious manner. "Do _not_ make me regret defending you to her."

Tristan shook his head to himself as she left. "Must be hereditary."


	16. Truce

**A/N: **Hi everyone. No, this story is not discontinued. ;) I have every intention of finishing it. I have an outline and there are large parts of it already written, but I'm struggling to put some other things together. I haven't had much time to sit down and just make myself write through it. I am incredibly grateful for your reviews and advice, which keeps me going. That, and having the story nag me from the back of my head. It's in there, it just needs to come out right. Anyway, I hope you will enjoy the next chapter.

* * *

**Truce**

There was very little time for conversations the next few weeks, as Tristan was called away to lead a patrol along the border with Deira, the Saxon territory in the north-east. Eirian spent her time in Camelot, becoming more acquainted with some of the other ladies and conveniently forgetting Tristan's command not to involve herself in politics and her sister's plea to listen to him. Her most successful venture was strengthening Caer Brannum's ties to the neighbouring Dun Deifr, lord Vincentius's domain. Even though she initiated that before Arthur's ruling about the lord's border dispute with his rival Cadoc, expressly against Tristan's wishes, she argued that Vincentius would be more receptive to her offer of friendship while he was still in a sticky spot himself.

It was the right decision, because a few days later Arthur ruled in Vincentius's favour, and they parted with mutual invitations for visits and a thank-you on Vincentius's part for her support. It was also through Vincentius that she learned that Arwel had indeed tried to contact as many lords as he could to accuse her of Ifan's murder, and as far as she could tell he had been reasonably successful. There were a few that had displayed hostility and coldness to her – thinly veiled by politeness – and quite a few more that simply kept their distance, no doubt waiting to see how the situation would play out.

She was very relieved that Vincentius had reserved judgment and looked favourably to a rapprochement, and so she had taken that opportunity to inform him of Arwel's attempt to seize Caer Brannum by compromising her into a marriage to him, ensuring that that tale would spread among the lords as a counterweight to Arwel's allegations.

Although it made her teeth clench so hard they ached, Eirian had to admit that the only reason Vincentius had been favourable to her in the first place was her marriage to Tristan. As Vincentius had said himself, he doubted the King would allow her such a powerful marriage if he believed there was a shred of truth in Arwel's accusations. Eirian had smiled and thanked him for his belief in her, though she had no illusions about Arthur's suspicions herself. She owed her safety to the intervention of Queen Guinevere.

Speaking of safety, she was more than a little apprehensive about Tristan's response to her actions upon his return. But she knew she had made the right decision, and during his absence she was able to banish her unease to the back of her mind.

She spent more time with the lady Ragnell, who was very courteous to her, and continued her exploration of Camelot, though every time she left the fort, she was accompanied by two guards. Tristan's orders. Whether they were for her protection, or to make sure she wouldn't run away, she wasn't sure. Her husband hadn't found it necessary to explain himself. Probably a bit of both, she thought, as Arwel was still on the loose.

Tegwen seemed to enjoy herself greatly. She'd made friends with two of Sir Bors's daughters, which had made Eirian slightly anxious at first, given her experiences with the man, but she couldn't find much fault with the two girls, other than being a bit too giggly and featherbrained for their age. But then again, Eirian supposed that her judgment wasn't entirely objective, given her own situation at their age.

The girls had become aunts a few days back, as their eldest sister had given birth to Sir Galahad's child, a girl named Evaine. The delivery had been very long and arduous, but mother and child were doing fine, and Galahad had ridden back from the patrol as if the devil had chased him and was now walking around Camelot puffed up like a peacock.

A young man named Lucan seemed to have taken a shine to Tegwen, whose response to him alternated between flustered, exasperated and shy. Eirian kept a close eye on them. Although Lucan was a foster son of Sir Dagonet and a knight himself, and could therefore be expected to behave himself honourably, he was still very young and... well, Eirian had experienced first-hand that, while courteousness was said to be a knightly trait, it could be traded for boorishness and vulgarity in an instant. So far, however, Lucan was behaving himself.

Eirian received regular letters from her advisor and _majordomus_ in Caer Brannum, which were addressed to the lord of Caer Brannum, of course – no one would ever find fault with those two – but which she opened in her husband's absence. Eirian was grateful for their detail. She had never been away from home this long, and it was difficult to leave everything and everyone in the hands of others.

Despite her worrying about her home, she did manage to enjoy her visit to the royal residence. Camelot was sprawled along the river bank, the royal fort that stemmed from the Roman days perched atop an outcrop of rock, towering over the lower parts of the town. Eirian had made trips to the river, and wandered through the town, visiting the countless craftsmen and the crowded markets. And the bathhouse, she had very regularly visited the bathhouse. She would have to follow Ragnell's example and make Tristan take her with him on his visits, so she could visit the baths.

As long as _he_ would then go away on a patrol, she added in her head, allowing herself a childish moment. There was no denying it, though, she felt much more at ease when he wasn't around. She could almost pretend she wasn't even married. Almost. She could never quite look at that table in Tristan's room in the same way again.

Eirian's state of near denial lasted only a little while, however, because after a fortnight the patrol was finished and Tristan returned to Camelot, and her visit ended very abruptly, being on the road back to Caer Brannum not two days later.

It was fall and everywhere they looked, the fields were being harvested. Eirian felt a mixture of pride and relief. The harvests were plentiful, and her people would be fed the coming winter. She waved in response to the calls and greetings that came their way, basking in the warm welcome she received. She spared a glance at Tristan, whose posture seemed to have relaxed, although his face was stoic as usual.

The short time between Tristan's return from the patrol and the departure of the Caer Brannum party had left them with little to no possibility to speak, and therefore also with no possibility to argue. It was a very welcome reprieve, one Eirian knew would not last for long. She hadn't told him about Vincentius yet, after all. But for now, there was a relatively warm autumn sun shining down on them, the air was rich with the scent of hay, she could hear Tegwen chattering away behind her, and she was heading home.

Eirian waved at a farmer's family standing near the road up ahead. Unwilling to ruin the comfortable day, she decided not to make a point by simply riding off and doing as she pleased. She turned to Tristan instead. "Do we have time for a quick stop?"

Eirian caught the flicker of surprise in his eyes and smiled. "We do," he said. "Why?"

She pointed at the small group of farmers who were watching their approach. "I would like to go over there and see how the harvest is going."

Tristan acquiesced with a gesture of his hand towards the farmers, and Eirian spurred her horse and trotted ahead. She was surprised to find that Tristan followed her. She dismounted near the farmers with Tristan, and after a furtive look in his direction, made her way over to her people, who greeted her with "my lady"s and sent curious looks at Tristan. As they were still almost a day's ride from Caer Brannum, Eirian realised that these farmers had most likely not made it to the town for her wedding. "My lord husband and I wanted to come and ask you how the harvest is going."

Tristan gave a polite nod, at which the pater familias wiped his brow with the hat he'd just taken off and pointed it eastward. "Not bad, my lady. We still have the two fields over there waiting for us, but all this here is nearly done. And good crop, too."

As the farmer continued his report, the family seemed to relax somewhat. It was probably due to Tristan's presence, Eirian thought, because she had visited these farms regularly since she was a girl and the people were used to her. Now that there was a new lord in Caer Brannum, things could have changed, so she understood their wariness. She was grateful when Tristan asked about the man's lands and what crops he grew. As the man settled into an account of the different fields and inevitably of his family tree, Eirian took a step back and asked the eldest woman about the health of the children. She found herself admiring the latest addition, who was kept in a basket while his mother worked the land, and was soon after following the mother across the fields to the family's famed strawberry patch, her skirts hoisted far above her ankles.

Tristan was looking highly amused as he watched her trudge after the farmer's wife, and she could only just refrain from making a face at him. She vividly remembered him calling her a spoiled brat in the early days of their acquaintance and was glad she had found something to counteract his prejudiced opinion of her, even if it meant being up to her knees in dirt.

Her hands full of lush, red strawberries she strode over to him and offered them to him with a challenging eyebrow raised. "My lord?" she drawled.

"Thank you," replied Tristan, meeting her challenge head on with a look that made her cheeks burn. Eirian cleared her throat and resumed her conversation with the family, sharing the strawberries, and said goodbye when they were all polished off.

Before she could mount her horse on her own, Tristan's hands firmly enclosed her waist. She started slightly, but allowed him to help her up. "Thank you," she said when she was seated, adjusting her reins so she did not have to look at him. Immediately, her overactive mind started going over the possible reasons for Tristan's display of chivalry. Was it genuine politeness of for appearance's sake in front of the family? She masked a snort with a cough. Tristan and being polite? She did appreciate that he was making an effort for her people, but it mixed with an immediate resentment that he was asserting himself as their lord, and she fell silent for the rest of the journey, chewing over her conflicting emotions.

Tristan decided to push on and reach Caer Brannum that night instead of spending it on the road and soon Eirian needed all of her energy to stay upright in the saddle instead of staying resentful. Only as they entered Caer Brannum very late that night, or early in the morning depending on your point of view, the fog of exhaustion lifted long enough for Eirian to be hit with the realisation that she was returning to her home as only the wife of a lord. Camelot had been a nice distraction, but her life in the margins would now begin.

All bustling business, her advisor and _majordomus_ hurried towards her and Tristan. "My lord, my lady, welcome back," said Ithel.

Simply too tired from the journey to feel any sort of emotion about her revelation, Eirian quietly accepted Tristan's outstretched arm to help her down from her horse. "Laurus," she said, "can you find room for the scouts his lordship has brought back with him from Camelot?"

"Of course, my lady." Her _majordomus_ bowed and headed towards the waiting men, motioning for maids and footmen to follow him.

"Any news?" asked Tristan, handing over his reins to a stable boy.

"Nothing that cannot wait until the morning, my lord," answered Ithel.

Tristan nodded. "I will see you after breakfast then."

The advisor inclined his head. "My lord."

Eirian kept silent.

* * *

Tristan watched the proceedings in the courtyard for a moment, his hand holding on to Eirian's upper arm, who was swaying on her feet with exhaustion. Tegwen was also half asleep as she was lifted out of the saddle and helped inside the villa. The Camelot scouts murmured softly to each other as they were escorted to various rooms by Eirian's efficient servants.

He felt a sudden pressure against his side and looked down. Eirian was leaning against him, her eyes closed. "Eirian?"

Her eyes snapped open. "What?"

"Go to bed."

She made an indistinct sound and walked to the entrance, quickly followed by her personal maid, who took her arm when she staggered. By the time he made his way to her bedchamber, Eirian was already fast asleep. He'd hoped to be able to have a much-needed conversation with her, as she seemed to be much more pliable when tired, but he would have to wait until the morning.

The two weeks he'd spent on his patrol had given him much opportunity for brooding, particularly about his wife's past and his new role as lord of the wealthiest part of the kingdom. The teasing of his brothers had slipped off his skin like water, as it had always done, and in fact, sitting near a campfire in the middle of nowhere and ignoring their ribbing made him feel far more at home than Camelot ever could, let alone Caer Brannum.

Tristan sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed, bending down to unlace his boots. Gods be damned, and Lancelot too. How did he let himself get chained to a town he didn't know, with a woman he didn't trust, and a duty he didn't want?

He took off his clothes and cleaned the worst of the dirt off his hands and face with a cloth and water that Eirian's diligent servants had laid out for him. It bothered him how easily the servants had switched from treating him as a guest to treating him as their lord. They seemed to have less problems with it than he did himself. He knew it bothered Eirian as well, for very different reasons. To her, it seemed like betrayal – that much he had gathered from the expressions she worked so hard to hide.

She was good at it, hiding her thoughts. It was only in rare moments that she slipped and revealed the person behind the polished image of the lady of Caer Brannum. Before their marriage, Tristan had enjoyed picking at those little cracks and had been successful in gaining a response, but he also knew that there was so much more that he hadn't managed to uncover and that made him wary and distrustful.

The names Ifan and Rhodri popped up into his mind, unbidden. And there was that, of course. Tristan wasn't worried about himself, despite the unfortunate end of Eirian's first husband. If anything happened to him, Tristan knew Arthur and his brothers would immediately suspect Eirian of the deed. No, he didn't think she would try to harm him. She was too clever for that.

Her relationship with Rhodri troubled him more than the homicidal streak in her character. He could not fool himself; he knew exactly the reason for it. A tiny part of him, existing somewhere in the back of his head, told him he was being a hypocrite, but he shook it off. Those circumstances had been different – he had behaved differently, and she had most certainly not behaved like Eirian.

He was reminded of Eirian's incongruous behaviour on their wedding night, not a virgin but completely ignorant anyway. It clashed with his suspicions, but he could not be sure what was an act and what was real.

Muttering a curse, Tristan slid into bed next to her. It was too late and he was too tired to think straight. Tomorrow, he would turn his mind to negotiations and see if he could salvage anything of his premarital life and keep control of Caer Brannum at the same time.

When he woke up the next morning, Eirian was still unconscious beside him, so he breakfasted alone and went to his meeting with Ithel and Laurus. The majordomus was carrying a stack of wax tablets and Tristan had a sinking feeling he was about to be introduced to the finer details of Caer Brannum's bookkeeping.

After a painstakingly detailed account of Caer Brannum's finances and household management, Tristan had come to a conclusion. "How was this managed before?" he asked Laurus.

"I conferred with lady Eirian, my lord," answered Laurus cautiously. "She has taken care of the household since before her first marriage and her father, Lord Meirion, consulted her on all other financial matters as well."

Laurus's not so subtle hint about Eirian's abilities did not go unnoticed, and Tristan raised a sardonic eyebrow at the majordomus, letting the man know he was not so easily fooled. Laurus shifted nervously, but stilled in surprise at Tristan's next words. "No reason to change a system that works. You will continue to _confer_ with Eirian, Laurus, and in external matters she will first speak to me. All internal matters will be dealt with by her."

"That is very gracious of you, my lord," said Ithel. "Does my lady already know this?"

"No, but I will be speaking with her later," answered Tristan. "What of the news you said could wait until this morning?"

An hour later, Tristan went in search of his wife, and found her in her rooms, curled up on her sofa near the window, still clad in her nightgown and a robe, her hair a wild mess around her face. She looked up grumpily from her breakfast plate. "Sleep well?" he asked drily.

She glared at him as she popped a grape into her mouth. "Good morning, my lord husband," she drawled. "Yes, I slept like the dead, thank you for asking, all because of your insisting to ride through the night on a saddle that I was tired of two days ago and resulting in the fact that I can now barely walk."

"Yes or no would have sufficed," he deadpanned.

He saw her nostrils flare in anger and he quickly held up a hand. "I did not come to fight. I came to talk."

Eirian held her tongue – with difficulty – and invited him to sit. She shifted to make room for him on the sofa, her movements slow and laborious. He noticed she tried to sit on one hip instead of her backside. Taking pity on her, he advised, "Take a hot bath. It helps."

"How would you know?" she retorted, shifting again. "Aren't Sarmatians born in the saddle?"

"Born, no. Raised, aye," said Tristan. "Doesn't mean I didn't have my share of awkward walks when I was younger."

"A hundred years ago," added Eirian snidely.

Tristan stuck out a hand and let it glide over her protruding hip, his fingers taking hold of her sore backside. "I said I didn't come here to fight, but if you insist..."

Eirian hissed like a cat when he squeezed her, grabbing his wrist. "Let go, you bastard!"

"Will you play nice?"

"Yes, yes, now get off!"

He relaxed his fingers, but kept his hand there as warning – and because he enjoyed the feel of that firm, rounded muscle.

"What do you want?" demanded Eirian, her eyes flicking warily between his face and his hand, her body tense. Together with her wild hair, she looked remarkably like a cornered animal ready to attack or flee. Tristan's body tried to turn his mind to other things besides talking, and was succeeding nicely.

"I had a conversation with Laurus and Ithel this morning," he answered, ignoring his baser instincts.

"Really?" drawled Eirian. "And what did you converse about? If you don't mind me asking, _my lord_." Venom dripped from her last, drawn out words. Tristan grinned. The bloody woman was challenging him. His body responded in kind, but he ignored it again. She would have to try a lot harder to steer him off course.

"I don't mind you asking," he replied simply.

She waited impatiently for him to continue, and her control snapped quickly. He must really have already pissed her off, Tristan thought, rather pleased. "Well?" she pressed. "What did you talk about then?"

"I talked about your continued managing of Caer Brannum's household and financial affairs," he answered impassively.

The expression on her face was priceless. "What? How do you mean?" she demanded.

Gods be damned, even in confusion the woman sounded imperious. "I mean that you will continue to manage Caer Brannum's household and finances as you did before," repeated Tristan patiently.

"Why would you allow that?" asked Eirian guardedly. "You don't trust me."

"No, I don't trust you," admitted Tristan. "But I do trust you to have Caer Brannum's best interest at heart."

Eirian stared at him, suspicion and puzzlement in her face. When she said nothing, Tristan continued, "On one condition."

Her eyes narrowed into slits. "Which is?"

"Anything that involves external relations, you will discuss with me first."

She processed his terms in silence. "Fine, I agree."

Tristan took his hand off her body and held it out. "Truce?"

She looked down her nose at the proffered appendage for a moment, before suspicion dissolved into thoughtfulness and she placed her own carefully in his. "Truce."

Tristan folded his fingers around her small hand and shook it. "I'm sure you have a lot of catching up to do with the majordomus," he said. "I will be out with my men."

He let go of her hand and stood. Her voice stopped him from leaving. "Will you be back in time for supper? I was thinking of a simple meal here in my rooms." She could be so polite if she wanted to, and in place of the angry, little cat he had poked at only moments ago now sat a courteous lady.

"I will be back in time for supper," he said. He would be back to poke at her carefully constructed exterior and bring out the feral creature beneath it. He'd never minded a few claw marks.

* * *

After meeting with her majordomus and advisor and being thoroughly reacquainted with the state of affairs in Caer Brannum, Eirian took her second bath of the day, hoping to soothe her abused muscles.

She sat submerged to her chin in the hot water, slightly reeling from the warmth and the wine her maids had set on the edge of the bath for her. It was getting late, supper would be served soon, but Eirian motioned Bethyn to pour more hot water into the bath and closed her eyes. Just a little while longer.

At Bethyn's surprised "My lord", Eirian drifted back into consciousness and opened one eye just in time to see Bethyn sink into a curtsy in front of Tristan. "Do you require assistance?"

Tristan shook his head and dismissed her with a gesture, at which Bethyn curtsied again and left the room. Eirian opened her other eye too, slightly apprehensive as always at being alone with him. "How was your day?" she asked.

"Not bad." Tristan sat down on the dainty little sofa in the corner of the bathing room and began to unlace his boots. Eirian watched him. Not in the mood for conversation this time, apparently. Tristan kicked off his boots and stood again to take off his belt, hauberk and shirt.

The warmth and the wine must have slowed her mind, because only now Eirian realised with a start that he intended to join her in the bath. Apprehension gave way to alarm and at the same time something tightened deep in her belly. Her eyes were glued to his form as he unlaced his breeches and pushed them down his hips. Tristan had a lean build, with limbs that were long and even elegant despite the powerful muscles straining under his skin. Eirian's gaze glided over his figure. There was not a soft spot on his body to be found, countless years of training and fighting having honed it into something unyielding and fierce.

With a bit of wonder, Eirian thought of Ifan, whose body had been that of a warrior too, but which had never elicited that much of a response from her. And she had certainly seen her fair share of shirtless men training on the villa grounds, so why...

Her train of thought and her breath hitched when Tristan fixed a dark gaze on her and advanced on the bath. The man spelled danger and predator, even without a thread of cloth on him. And really, thought Eirian primly, that should not affect her as much as it did. She rubbed her thighs together under water, shivering at the slick friction it created. But it did.

Tristan let out a pleased sound when he discovered the warmth of the water. "I took your advice," she said in reply. "You're right, it helps."

"Good."

He bent down to soak his hair and stood again, walking back to the edge of the bath to take a little ball of Gallic soap – increasingly harder to come by – and washed his hair with a quick and efficient hand. After rinsing it, he took a cloth and started on his body. Eirian, enjoying the display, began to wonder if Tristan would be in and out of the bath within the blink of an eye, and thought it would be a shame to deprive herself of a pleasant view. She rose from her submerged seat and waded over to him, taking the cloth from his hand.

Tristan handed it over without a word, his eyes travelling down the exposed part of her body. Eirian dipped the cloth in the water and moved behind him, rubbing it over his back. She stood closer to reach up to his shoulders and neck and put her other hand on his hip for balance. His muscles twitched slightly at the contact and she could hear his breathing deepen. She lingered, exploring the muscular ridges and scars of his back with both cloth and hand. Tristan reached back and pulled her in front of him.

"You're being very helpful suddenly," he commented.

Eirian grinned up at him. "Self-interest."

Tristan's gaze wandered down her body again, this time followed by a hand. "You've recovered?"

"I think I'll manage," she replied, pressing herself closer to his exploring hand.

Tristan responded with a quirked eyebrow and moved to sit on one of the submerged seats, pulling her into his lap. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him, rubbing her slippery skin against his.

As Tristan's response became evident against her belly, Eirian quickly caught on to his intention. She broke their kiss, wriggling closer to him and clenching her thighs more securely around his hips. "I see what is going on here," she said. "This is your way of testing if my muscles really have recovered."

With a smirk he lifted her hips and settled her on top of him. "Aye, let's find out."


End file.
